


Rock-a-Bye Baby

by salire



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salire/pseuds/salire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. _Please_. [](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/profile)[**hopefulgenius**](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/) is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.

Prologue.

It's a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus. Completely normal. Brendon wakes up first and makes a mad dash for the coffee pot only to find a note in its place (Not on your life, Urie. Go the fuck back to sleep. –S.S.). He goes on his routine hunt for it and fails. Then, with nothing else to do (and with a death threat from one very non-morning person Spencer Smith in mind) he grabs his iPod and crawls into Ryan's bunk.

"Ryan," he whispers loudly at Ryan's sleeping face. "Ryan Ross, are you sleeping?"

"Mrf," Ryan replies, which means, "Yes," in pre-dawn Ryan language, so Brendon scrambles under the covers (a remarkable feat, mind you – the bunks are teeny tiny!). It's a tight fit, but he manages to tuck himself next to Ryan. And on top of him. And under him. And everywhere else around him, like a squirming blanket. He tucks his head beneath Ryan's chin and presses his freezing feet under Ryan's calves. Ryan will deny it if ever asked, but he's a fantastic pre-dawn snuggler.

Then Brendon puts his earbuds in and cranks up the playlist he entitled "Ryan Ross and Other Things That Go Bump in the Night." Mostly, it's just a bunch of songs that Ryan sang without knowing he was being recorded.

He curls up next to (on top of) Ryan and closes his eyes for about an hour until Ryan stirs, tells him to fucking find his own bunk, and pushes him out. Ryan tumbles out right after and, apparently, he knows where the coffee pot is hidden. Jon's camera bag.

"Damn," Brendon mutters, "should've checked the camera bag. Jon Walker, you traitor."

He follows Ryan to the kitchen-ish corner of the bus and makes himself fruity pebbles and Ryan French toast and Jon a microwavable sausage-egg burrito and Spencer nothing because Spencer threatened his life and he feels the need for revenge. His plan is foiled, however, when Ryan makes Spencer a cup of coffee.

"My life, Ryan Ross. He threatened my life."

"When doesn't he?"

Spencer comes out later with Jon, looking like he wants to snap a Brendon-sized object in half and only appearing pleasant for the briefest moment when Ryan hands him his coffee. Jon thanks Brendon for his food and Ryan does too and they all sit on the couch and eat breakfast.

Eventually, Spencer says, "Why the hell did you wake up at fuck-o'clock and bang around like an elephant, dumbass?" and half-heartedly kicks Brendon's shin.

Brendon grins and babbles about bubble dreams and birds and sleepy worms and something like green people. Jon nods like he understands and Ryan picks up yesterday's newspaper, determined to finish the crossword, sipping on his coffee and nibbling at his toast.

Brendon makes eyes at Ryan's coffee and Ryan interchangeably until Ryan sighs and hands him the cup. Spencer squawks and dives for the mug, but Jon hugs him and the fight dissipates soon after that.

Eventually they leave the couch one by one to do various things, namely watching television on the floor in front of the couch. Ryan's the only one to remain in his original place, ignoring the riveting documentary on Birds of Paradise and Brendon's observation that, "Hey, they look like you, Ryan!"

So it's been a perfectly normal morning in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker. Except that somewhere during the Bird of Paradise's weirdly awesome (awesomely weird?) mating dance, Brendon's mind makes life altering connections and he jumps up, blinking widely at Ryan. "I love you."

Ryan doesn't even look up from his newspaper, barely lifting his mouth from gnawing at the pencil in his hand to speak. "I know."

Brendon huffs and sets his hands at his hips, cocking them to the side. "No. Ryan Ross, I love you."

"I know, Brendon," he sighs, filling in several boxes and erasing them immediately afterwards.

"No, no. Ryan." Brendon crawls up on the couch next to him, still staring at his face. "Ryan, I'm in love with you. Like. Creepy in love."

Ryan rolls his eyes and drops the newspaper in his lap, finally looking up at Brendon. "I know, Brendon."

"Oh." Well. Brendon stares at Ryan until Ryan picks his newspaper back up and goes back to the crossword. "Oh."

"A little slow on the uptake, Bden?" Jon asks, grinning at him from his place next to Spencer on the floor.

"Shut up," Spencer hisses, "the baby caribou just died."

Brendon usually feels very sad for the baby caribou. It never stood a chance against the starving wolves. In his opinion, it's the most poignant moment in the Planet Earth series. But now all he can think is, "Oh," and, "Wow," and, "Cool."

He curls up next to Ryan and points to the one Ryan's pencil is hovering over. "Parsimonious."

Everyone stares at him and Ryan carefully counts out the boxes. He seems surprised when they fit, and he fills in the word. "Wow."

"Holy shit," Spencer says.

"I'm getting the video camera." Jon stands, heading for the back of the bus. "Next thing you know the kid'll be spouting the secret to world peace."

"Or realizing that he does, in fact, have on unhealthy addiction to Disney movies," Spencer sniffs.

"It is not an addiction. It is a hobby." Brendon tucks his face into Ryan's shoulder. "Asshole."

"Damn. I thought he was on a roll for a second."

"Ass. Hole."

 

***

 

Not much changes after Brendon's abrupt love confession. He still wakes up first, searches for coffee, and then snuggles with Ryan. He still gets shoved out of Ryan's bunk and makes breakfast for everyone in the microwave. He, uh, doesn't help Ryan with the crossword though. Apparently, 'parsimonious' pretty much drained him of every long word he knew that Ryan couldn't think of before him.

So, not much changes.

But some things do.

For instance, Ryan doesn't skillfully maneuver away from Brendon's kisses anymore (unless it's for a show; there's nothing an audience likes more than sexual tension and making that tension disappear probably wouldn't be a great career move).

Brendon uses this newfound privilege to its full potential. He kisses Ryan when they get food at Wendy's. He kisses Ryan awake in the mornings. He kisses Ryan at the gas station when they stop to restock their supply of Red Bull and gummy bears. He kisses Ryan backstage, right after performances – and before them too.

He's found that kissing Ryan in general is really sort of awesome. He thinks he should try to do it more, except that after four or five kisses in a thirty minute time period, Spencer scoffs and says, "God, how gay for one person can you be?"

"Pretty gay, apparently," Jon laughs.

Brendon sulks after that and curls up into the crook of Ryan's arm. Ryan tends to ignore everyone and read a book or something. Brendon is starting to wonder how many books he could possibly have to read on their tiny little tour bus. A lot, he guesses, because Ryan reads fast and Brendon has never seen him read the same book twice.

Another thing that changes is that sometimes Ryan lets him sleep with him. Before, Ryan had always said that the bunks were too cramped and to just go the hell to sleep in his own; now, Brendon occasionally gets to crawl into his rightful place beside Ryan, pressing his head to Ryan's shoulder and draping himself over as much of him as possible.

He thinks that maybe it's all too easy and that nothing ever works out that well without any repercussions whatsoever, but he's not going to ask. Even if Brendon's not Mormon anymore, he's not going to fuck with Fate or The Powers That Be or whatever. So he's content just to lay back and enjoy the ride.

 

***

 

"Thank you, everybody, goodnight!" A bead of sweat slides along Brendon's cheekbone as he thrusts his mic in the air. He swipes it away against his shoulder. It's blisteringly hot on stage, in this huge enclosed space, but even with all the heat and the consequence of sweating, Brendon is grinning like crazy.

His fans, their fans, they all yell back at him and he internalizes every shriek, eats up every last 'I love you, Brendon Urie!' and 'Oh my fucking god, awesome!'. He can't hear himself breathe or even think above the roar of his insane audience.

Ryan comes up on one side of him and Jon takes his other side while Spencer quickly moves from his drum set, still tightly clutching his drum sticks. Brendon grabs Ryan's hand and then Jon's too, waits for Jon to grab Spencer's, drumsticks and all, and they take a sweeping bow, connected in a more literal form of the way they're linked on stage.

He can't help it anymore, can't hold it in, and he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs and someone is probably watching, some reporter or something, and thinking 'That kid has lost his mind,' but he doesn't care. Brendon fucking loves his job. Briefly, he considers walking out to the barrier and touching some hands, but he knows that Zack is watching him like a hawk from the sidelines and will probably tackle him if he even looks like he's going to do that.

Besides, Jon threw his flip flops toward some girls holding up a sign proclaiming, "WE ♥ JWALK," earlier and no matter how many people Brendon touches, he can't compete with Jon's flip flops.

After several more bows and without Brendon's laughter subsiding in the least, Ryan tugs on his hand. Brendon laces their fingers together and releases Jon's hand to wave at the still cheering fans as he's pulled backstage. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jon pick Spencer up by the waist and follow Brendon back. Spencer laughs, loud and sunshine-like.

"We fucking rocked, you guys!" Jon says, almost a yell to be heard over the audience.

"That was insane," Spencer adds once he's back on his own two feet. "Did you feel that energy? I was all the way back there with my kit and it still got me."

"Dude, it was awesome!" Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet as Ryan pulls him along into their dressing room. "Did you guys see all those chicks with the t-shirts that spelled out 'Panic'? Did you see the last one with the exclamation point in parentheses?"

Jon laughs. "Some people just can't let it go."

"Next interview, I'm making tearful commentary about our lost little punctuation mark, for sure." Then, he squeezes Ryan's hand and asks, "You okay, Ross? You're quiet."

Ryan looks over his shoulder at Brendon and sends him a smoldering smirk that makes every part of Brendon's body throb.

His mouth falls open and he has enough time to say, "Oh," and, "but Jon and Spencer-" before his back is pressed flat to the wall. There's a loud click from the door, announcing Jon and Spencer's hasty departure. Brendon barely notices.

He can feel Ryan trembling with the heat and ecstasy of the show above him and that's okay because he's shaking with that same heat. Ryan's kissing him with his eyes half-lidded and completely blown and all Brendon can do is watch and shiver and feel.

"Brendon," Ryan mumbles against his mouth, "Brendon, do you even realize how you look right now? Fuck, Brendon."

Brendon didn't, but he's got a pretty good idea at this point. He gasps desperately for breath and Ryan takes the opportunity to dart his tongue into Brendon's mouth. Brendon groans, his chest burning for air. His lungs are tightening hard now. The smallest flash of a thought flickers through his brain in which he wonders when the hell Ryan got so good at breath control. It's gone quickly though and he doesn't care. Later he'll doubt he wants to know anyway.

Finally, finally, Ryan slides his lips down and along the line of Brendon's jaw to kiss his neck. Brendon gulps in huge mouthfuls of air and – oh, God, is he sobbing?

Ryan's laugh hums against his throat. "You okay?"

Brendon can't even answer, just breathe. The room's lights are incredibly bright now and he knows that his eyes are dilated so he just nods blindly, keeps nodding, and he can't stop.

Ryan laughs again. "You'll get better at holding your breath, trust me."

Brendon certainly hopes so. His already flushed cheeks turn redder at the thought and he closes his eyes.

He feels one of Ryan's hands slide into his hair, the pads of his fingertips working little circles into his scalp. It feels so nice, gentle; then, Ryan grips a handful of his hair and yanks his head back.

Fuck, that hurt. And Brendon would have maybe been out for blood if Ryan hadn't licked a hot stripe up his neck and softly sucked at his pulse point.

Brendon can't help it, he really can't, and his hips jerk up into Ryan's. Their hipbones hit and that hurts, but their cocks grind against one another too, through their jeans and, "Oh, God; oh, fuck; oh, God."

Ryan moans at the sudden contact and pushes harder against Brendon to maintain it, shifting down and over and Brendon is going to come in his pants if Ryan doesn't stop that soon.

"Ryan, fuck," his hand comes up from Ryan's shoulders and clasps the back of Ryan's neck. "Fuck, Ryan. I-I need…"

"What, Brendon?" Ryan's hand curls around Brendon's hip where his shirt is riding up and his pants are riding low. "What do you need?"

"I… I…" Brendon can't think with Ryan's mouth on his neck and Ryan's hand in his hair and Ryan's thumb stroking his hip bone and he finally chokes out, "fuck, I don't _know_."

Ryan hums against his skin and Brendon wants to cry, but, seriously, how girly would that be? Finally, Ryan says, "Fair enough," and grabs his hand.

Brendon nearly falls at the sudden loss of Ryan's weight when he moves away, and he stumbles as Ryan leads him to the couch.

Ryan pulls Brendon into him and kisses him softly, whispering, "Lay down." Ryan's breath puffs against his cheek warmly and his hands grip Brendon's hips as he carefully helps him down. He makes an embarrassing noise when Ryan's fingers lift away briefly.

Ryan laughs. "I'm coming, calm down." He starts unbuttoning his shirt and Brendon sits up quickly, grabbing his wrist.

Ryan gives him a startled look. Brendon shakes his head. "I want to… let me just…" He curls a finger into Ryan's belt loop and smiles. "C'mere."

Ryan complies, moving over Brendon on the couch, his knees touching either side of Brendon's hips. Brendon's hand skirts up Ryan's shirt and he grabs his collar, dragging him down into a harsh, open-mouthed kiss. He feels Ryan's hand move down, down, and with one quick movement he flicks open the fly of Brendon's jeans, and Brendon moans.

Ryan laughs. Again.

"You know," Brendon mutters, "if you keep laughing at me, I'm going to dump you on the floor."

Ryan makes a sound of protest and smirks again, his fingers hovering over Brendon's erection. "You're so stupid-funny, though. Do you seriously moan this much all the time, or am I just special?"

Brendon sees the flicker in Ryan's eyes and knows that he's already aware that he's special. "God, Ryan," he rolls his hips up into Ryan's hand, "have you ever fucking seen your hands? They're sort of amazing."

"Yeah?" He pushes the heel of his palm into Brendon's crotch.

"Y-Yeah," Brendon pants, partly because it's true, Ryan has gorgeous hands, but mostly because those hands are touching him, and he frantically wants to get laid.

Ryan kisses him again, and Brendon knows his lips are bruised; they ache and burn a little under the ruthless treatment, but it's okay. Brendon would probably have jumped out of his skin with restrained energy if Ryan had made him hold everything in. Brendon smiles because, really, he's a lucky little bastard sometimes.

He makes short work of unbuttoning Ryan's vest and shirt, pushing them off of Ryan's shoulders. He's not sure how, but during that one stay at the cabin, Ryan's shoulders filled out and weren't really bony anymore. They're kind of awesome. Brendon scrambles down Ryan's body from beneath him and kisses Ryan's shoulder, grazing his teeth along his collarbone.

Then, suddenly both of Brendon's shirts are being yanked over his head at once and then they're chest to chest, skin flush against skin. Brendon likes being this close to Ryan. He would love to get much, much closer.

With this thought in mind, he slides a jean-clad leg up along Ryan's thigh and sucks hard at Ryan's skin.

"Mmn, Brendon." Ryan closes his eyes and fists a hand into Brendon's hair. His other hand presses against Brendon's boxer-briefs.

Brendon is starting to see stars and his hips crush against Ryan. If he doesn't come soon, he's pretty sure he's going to implode.

His hands fly down to Ryan's pants and he quickly unbuttons them, shoving them down.

Brendon had been almost positive that Ryan would make some snarky, smart-assed comment about being eager, but he just kicks off his boots, socks and jeans in a movement that should not be graceful but somehow is. Brendon is a lucky, lucky boy.

 

***

 

May: Month One

"All right! Take seven! Action!"

Brendon bites his lip and prays that he doesn't do it again. He's pretty sure the director is going to blow a gasket any time now.

The camera's rolling and Brendon is trying not to burst out in a fit of giggles for the seventh time while maintaining eye contact with the camera.

"Hi, I'm Ryan," Ryan says from beside him, his face smiling politely. Brendon can feel that he's tense though, probably getting more pissed than the director. Ryan gets on the bitchy side sometimes.

Okay, deep, even breath. Smile. "I'm Brendon." One part down. He can do this, he totally can.

"I'm Jon."

"And I'm Spencer."

Another breath. "And we're Panic," Brendon thrusts the paper exclamation point he's holding in the camera's lens; oh, God, he can't do it, "at the-"

He collapses against Ryan's shoulder in a fit of giggles, his face hurting and his entire body shaking with it. He's pretty sure he can hear the director throw something in the background.

"Sorry," he rasps out, biting his lip to at least stop laughing a little, "sorry, just." He looks up, his face bright, and is surprised to find the camera still rolling. He clears his throat. "Right. Panic at the Disco."

The interviewer in the chair next to their couch is smiling forcefully, looking like she's trying to suppress a scream or something. "Right. I'm glad you could make it here, guys. We were scared you were going to cancel on us for a minute there."

"Yeah, sorry we were so late." Spencer shoots Brendon and Ryan a look between a grimace and amusement. Mostly a grimace though.

"Band stuff," Jon chimes in, grinning like he knows a secret.

"Oh?"

Brendon wants to laugh again. The reporter seems nice enough, as nice as reporters come anyway, but she's got this look on her face that screams, "I want to know everything you do – everything – and I'll do anything to know it."

Ryan nods. "Also translated as: Brendon couldn't find his favorite pair of socks this morning."

Wait, what?

"And he apologizes for making us late," Spencer adds, jabbing Brendon's side a little for extra effect. Spencer gives him a look that says, "If you don't play along, I'll kill you painfully," and.

Oh. Okay, cool, whatever.

"Yeah," Brendon shrugs, wincing at the dull throb of a bite mark on his shoulder. Ryan biting him a little is always great in the passion of the moment, but the marks are always a bitch later. They really need to start thinking about what they have to do after sex and plan ahead or something.

Aha, a sexual day planner, what?

He snorts a little at that thought, waving his hand and covering his mouth. Everyone looks at him (in different ways; the reporter and Ryan with raised eyebrows, Spencer with a 'death will be drawn out' look, and Jon with a shit eating grin that told Brendon that they are on the exact same wavelength somehow [Jon is sort of psychic sometimes, Brendon thinks]).

He clears his throat again. "Sorry."

The reporter's eyebrow remains raised, but she keeps her smile and goes on smoothly. "I guess it's easy to lose things on the bus, huh?"

They all nod because they all know it's beyond true. It's the gospel truth of touring.

"Particularly when you have certain people on the bus with an affinity for bright, sparkly things," Jon laughs. Yes, Brendon did see Jon tapping absently at Spencer's thigh. He and Ryan were so not the gayest people on their bus.

So not.

Okay, maybe they are the gayest, but they aren't the only gay, at least.

Brendon reaches over Spencer to shove at Jon. "If someone didn't leave their crap everywhere maybe certain people wouldn't find said shiny things to play with."

The reporter laughs. It's a nice laugh. Brendon wishes he could remember her name. "Am I going to have to separate you two?"

"Yes, please," Spencer says from between them, groaning.

"We'll be good," Jon swears, patting Spencer's knee comfortingly. "We promise."

Brendon sticks his tongue out at Jon and Ryan shoves his shoulder. Brendon is pretty sure he's going to kill the next person that touches his injured shoulder. "Be good."

He sighs and nods, leaning more heavily against Ryan.

The reporter smiles at Ryan. "I'm guessing this happens a lot on the bus."

Ryan laughs, but not like he's spectacularly happy. "You have no idea. When you put four energetic, creative types in something as contained as the bus always is, it's pretty much asking for an explosion of some sort."

She nods and never looks away from them. "So. We need to get some obligatory, everyone's-already-asked questions out of the way for all of your fans who don't know how to work YouTube. How's the tour going? Tired of all of your third album's songs yet?"

"We have, like, fifty songs we can sing now without doing any covers," Ryan answers, eyeing Brendon like he's expecting the explosion he'd just talked about to happen at any moment. "And we change chords all the time, beginnings, the show itself. Plus, the fans are always really energetic. It's pretty hard to get tired of anything anymore."

"Except the traveling itself," Spencer interjects. "We hate being away from home."

"Which brings us to an interesting topic." The reporter's mouth quirks a little. It's a look that everyone in the band glances at each other over. "Jon, you've just opened up about moving to Las Vegas. What went into that major life change?"

Everyone settles down considerably, with the exception of Spencer. Brendon thinks Spencer is a little paranoid sometimes. Jon shrugs. "It's just easier to be a musician when you aren't states away from your band mates. Plus, have you ever been to Vegas? It's amazing, even with the gambling and drinking and stuff."

The reporter's eyebrows raise like she knows something. "Or because of the drinking and gambling?"

Jon grins, still tapping a steady beat on Spencer's thigh. They're so transparent. Why is it that all the rumors are about him and Ryan and not Jon and Spencer? "That too."

He looks at Spencer and Spencer glances up at him and, God, so fucking transparent.

Brendon makes a face and Ryan subtly elbows him.

She nods. "I've only been once; it was fun and I'm not even a drinker. You're staying with Spencer while you house search, right?"

"And he won't divide his laundry for anything." Ugh, Spencer's bitch voice with blatant marital bliss undertones. Ughhh, dangerous combo. "I had to pay him just to separate his whites and darks. Twenty dollars."

"Per week," Jon adds. "Spencer just hates the planet's greenness and wants to waste water on one white shirt that could go with ten pairs of jeans but doesn't because Spencer has a master plan to kill all trees."

Brendon laughs so hard he thinks he's going to cry. "Why do you hate trees, Spencer, why?"

He and Jon high-five over Spencer's lap.

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Someone found the sugar this morning, I think."

Brendon slides his hand into Ryan's and laces their fingers. "Whatever, you love us this way."

"Yeah," Ryan deadpans, "like I love bullets to the brain." But he lets Brendon hold his hand.

Brendon loves the fact that the reporter notices their intertwined fingers and wants to tell her and the camera that, "Ha, we're dating and you can't make us tell you." Except that would be telling them, so. He pouts a little at foiling his own plan.

Still, being Brendon Urie is totally awesome, particularly later in the interview when Ryan takes his hand. Dude, Brendon could totally get used to this boyfriend thing. Definitely.

 

***

 

Brendon loves sex. Really loves it, probably for the same reason any teenager or twenty-something does. It feels awesome. And sex with Ryan feels really good.

What makes it better is that it happens everywhere. Against walls, in dressing rooms, backstage in remote corners, one time at Wal-Mart when Spencer was off bitching about the price of socks rising. If Brendon can convince Ryan that, "No, we're fine, no one will catch us," then they're messing around.

It's easy to excuse. They're both boys. Crazy sex drives come with the territory. Crazy, fast and wild is the language they were born knowing.

But Brendon's got a secret. A really embarrassing secret.

Even though he loves the hotsweatymindless sex, and up to this point has only liked that kind of sex, he's starting to get addicted to going slow.

He can't help it.

He loves moments like that, like this, like right now when he's letting Ryan set the pace completely, when Ryan's strategically placing soft and deliberate kisses on his lips, face, neck, when Ryan's light touches feel more like a soft breeze on Brendon's skin or maybe more like butterfly wings.

When they're both content and an orgasm doesn't even matter.

"Ryan," he breathes into his mouth, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across Ryan's shoulder blades. He whimpers quietly, not for climax, but for Ryan, to be closer to him, to be part of him even when Ryan's not as far inside of him as he can go. "Ryan."

Ryan's body slides up against his, slick skin on skin, and kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his nose. Then he kisses Brendon's mouth and says, "Brendon," and Brendon tilts his head back and comes.

 

***

 

One thing that Ryan's always hated about touring is going to sleep alone and waking up the same way. It's lonely and there's always a cold spot to his right. Since he and Brendon started dating, he never has to sleep by himself.

But one morning he wakes up and his right side is freezing. His arm searches for a warm body beside him and only comes up with air.

He lifts his head and rubs at his eyes to make sure that Brendon really is gone. He doesn't know why, but his stomach drops and he quickly sits up, glancing at the clock. Five thirty in the morning. Even Brendon doesn't get up at five thirty unless they have an early interview.

Ryan's throat feels scratchy so he clears it and says, "Brendon?" His voice doesn't echo, the bus is too small for that, but his words are swallowed into the silence and that somehow feels so much lonelier. Brendon doesn't respond.

Ryan pushes himself out of bed. He's just in his bunk for once, Ryan assures himself, or the bathroom.

Brendon's bunk is empty, aside from a huge stuffed tiger that Ryan had denied entry into his bunk when Brendon had made the transition. Brendon had made puppy eyes and they'd met halfway. Brendon could have two smaller stuffed animals, but not the tiger. Ryan's heart flutters at the memory, then aches suspiciously.

Ryan tells himself to calm down. Brendon's just in the bathroom, then. He treks over clothes, bags of gummy bears and at least four electronic devices as he makes his way across the bus. He bites his lip to keep from cussing out everything he trips on and finally knocks on the closed door. "Brendon," he mutters, half growls, "you in there?"

There's a cough and shuffling before a quiet, "Yeah," comes through the door.

Ryan's eyebrows draw together. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

Ryan tries the knob to find it unlocked and pushes the door open. When Brendon comes into view, he's on the floor in front of the toilet, head in his hands. Ryan wrinkles his nose as an acidic smell washes over him. "Whoa. Are you okay?"

Brendon looks up at him slowly. His face is ghastly white and there are dark circles around his eyes. "I think I ate something bad."

Brendon sounds tired, weak and Ryan immediately drops to his knees and crawls close, curling around him from behind. Brendon leans back against him and closes his eyes. Ryan smoothes his hair down. "I told you those California rolls looked weird."

Brendon smiles a little. "Yeah. Good thing today is a free day. It'd suck if I threw up on the crowd."

Ryan snorts. "Someone would catch it and sell it on EBay, I bet."

"Ew," Brendon shudders.

Ryan nods. "Yeah. You know you're a big fucking rock star when someone can sell your throw up."

Brendon coughs again. "Big fucking rock star." Then his eyes get wide and he surges forward, back in front of the toilet.

Ryan can't bear to watch Brendon's dinner come back up, but he rubs Brendon's back and mumbles assurances. "You're grounded to your bunk tomorrow. No prancing around the city this time."

Brendon's reply echoes in the toilet bowl. "Wasn't planning on it."

 

***

 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Ryan delicately draws a kohl line beneath Brendon's eye but watches Brendon's face instead of what he's doing. Ryan knows the plains of Brendon's face well enough now that he doesn't have to pay attention.

Brendon smiles. "I told you. I'm fine now. It was just something I ate."

Ryan purses his lips and smudges Brendon's eyeliner. "If you still don't feel well, we can cancel the show."

"And disappoint all our fans?" Brendon's hands rest on Ryan's hips and he runs his thumbs along the seam of his jeans. "Ryan, I'm fine now. Chill."

Ryan sighs and leans down, kissing him. "Don't run yourself down, Brendon."

Brendon pushes himself up to steal another kiss. "Stop worrying and put your face on. The crowd loves it when you're all painted with glitter, Ryro."

Ryan pushes him away, annoyed. He started hating that nickname forever ago and Brendon knows it. "Don't think I won't take you off stage in the middle of the show if things look bad."

Brendon stands and grabs his costume's pants, shimmying expertly out of his jeans. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Ryro."

Ryan throws his eyeliner at him.

 

***

 

June: Month Two

Brendon's been fine as far as anyone can tell. Ryan is really worried at first and almost goes as far as pressing his ear to the door when Brendon went to the bathroom in case he was acting. ("Dude, what the hell? How am I supposed to pee if I know you're listening? Also, weird.")

After a day or two, though, Ryan is satisfied that Brendon isn't faking.

Besides, there is too much to do, as each of his band mates remind him, to worry so much about something that was just a fluke.

Still, Ryan is relieved when they finally have several days off. That means a hotel. Thank God, because Ryan almost can't remember how a real mattress feels.

Brendon too, apparently, because he bounds into the room as soon as Ryan slides the keycard into the slot. He leaps onto the huge bed, curling into the pillows, and purrs. "Mm, Ryan." He stretches out his arms and legs. "It's a bed."

Ryan smiles as he shuts the door behind himself. "Glad you remember what those look like."

"I almost forgot, I'm telling you." Brendon grins into the pillow and flips onto his back, keeping his arms stretched out. "Now, come take advantage of me. This bed is in need of christening, I can feel it."

Ryan drops his bag and toes off his socks and shoes, placing them neatly by the door. "You do realize that this is a hotel room, right? I'm sure that bed has been christened more times than you've been at this point."

Brendon makes a face. "Bad visual. Get over here and fuck me before you shatter the mood, Ryan Ross."

Ryan laughs and pulls his shirt over his head before crawling over Brendon. "I never pegged you for a closet germophobe."

"Oh, the things you don't know." Brendon waggles his eyebrows and then wraps around him, all clumsy arms and legs. "Also, fuck you, I'm not. People having sex all over our bed just doesn't do it for me." He smirks. "You?"

Ryan's fingers skim over the exposed strip of skin on Brendon's stomach, soaking in the way Brendon's muscles quiver involuntarily at the contact. "Not so much."

Brendon leans up and catches the corner of his mouth, mumbling, "Whatever."

Ryan pushes his hips down against Brendon's and darts his tongue into Brendon's mouth on a resulting hitched breath. He makes short work of Brendon's shirt (thank God for button downs) and slides his mouth down to Brendon's chin and jaw line. Then he stops.

"Ryan," Brendon hisses at first, assuming it's a little bit of teasing. Ryan loves teasing. But when Ryan doesn't chuckle at his squirming or start again or anything, he blinks his eyes open. "Ryan?"

"Are you wearing foundation?" Ryan questions, stunned. He can't really believe it, but Brendon's skin tastes off and now that he's looking, he's noticing a line of discoloration between Brendon's jaw and neck.

"Oh." Brendon rubs his cheek and looks at his fingers. "Yeah. I guess I forgot."

Ryan stares at him. "What the hell?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking of cross-dressing full time. I'm kidding, Ryan," he quickly adds, seeing Ryan's slightly horrified expression. "My skin's just been uneven lately. Splotchy. So I started wearing foundation so the tabloids don't start freaking out or anything."

Ryan can't process this so he just blinks and says, "What?"

Brendon sighs and untangles himself from Ryan, pushing him gently back against the mattress. "Chill." Ryan stares as Brendon unfastens his jeans and shifts down, pressing his cheek over Ryan's open fly. "I'm going to blow you and then you're going to fuck me and after that we're ordering room service. Then round two will commence and you will forget all about me wearing foundation."

Ryan doubts it, but he actually does.

 

***

 

They're playing a venue in Chicago. The energy is fantastic like it always is in huge cities.

Brendon feels off.

He's been light-headed lately, nauseous too, and he feels worse today. He doesn't tell anyone though. They'd be too worried, especially Ryan, and they all need to concentrate on the tour at hand.

Something's wrong though, different. Brendon feels off and he prays it doesn't show in his voice.

In the second stanza of Northern Downpour, he collapses. His last thought is, "Shit, Ryan's gonna kill me," and then nothing.

 

***

 

The first time Brendon passed out on stage, when that bottle hit him in the head, Ryan had frozen. His mind couldn't function past, "This isn't happening."

This time isn't much different except that, "I knew it," is tacked onto the end.

 

***

 

Brendon sleeps a long time and has a nightmare that he can't remember before he slides back into reality, hearing first.

There's a high pitched beep to his left that he knows is a heart monitor from watching too many ER reruns. He can dully hear movement and his head throbs with every clatter he hears in the distance. There's a baby crying somewhere that he wishes someone would pick up and pay attention to so it would stop.

Brendon winces at a particularly piercing wail and finally forces himself to open his eyes.

He's laying on a stark white bed in a stark white room. Hospital. He hates hospitals. They smell too clean, like the bathroom used to when his mom went on a cleaning rampage and scrubbed it down with rubbing alcohol. He's always wondered what the point of making a hospital white was. It had to be a bitch getting blood stains out of the sheets.

Brendon's gaze promptly lands on Ryan. His head is down on the bed beside Brendon's hand (which has an IV in it, he just now notices) and his eyes are closed. He doesn't look calm at all though and Brendon watches him for a while, expecting his eyes to open into a glare. Ryan doesn't wake up, and finally Brendon raises his hand, slowly lowering it to run his knuckles over Ryan's forehead and cheek.

"You woke up." Brendon looks up into the smiling face of a young woman in a lab coat. "I swear your fiancé thought you never would."

Fiancé? He blinks, then smiles at Ryan. "Ryan's an extremist. He either under reacts to everything or overreacts to everything."

The woman laughs and picks up the chart hanging at the end of his bed. She reads it quickly. "Okay, Mr. Urie, I'm Dr. Helen Shelley. You came in severely dehydrated and were out for," she checks he watch, "around thirteen hours. We tried to revive you but you remained unresponsive. In the mean time, we performed a CAT scan and began running blood tests. So far all I've got on you is severe dehydration and-"

Ryan groans then, cutting her off as he heavily lifts his head. He looks up at Brendon, smiles, then frowns. "You're awake."

Brendon can't look him in the eye. "Yeah."

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. After a long moment, Dr. Shelley looks back down at her chart. "You're suffering from severe dehydration and probably exhaustion."

Ryan looks up at her solemnly. "Did you find out anything new in the blood tests?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. Mr. Urie, I was wondering if you could shed some light on the situation for us. You obviously knew something was wrong to be wearing make up."

Brendon's ears turn red with embarrassment. "Yeah. It's been three or four weeks now."

"A month?" Brendon wishes Ryan would talk with some sort of inflection. Right now, the monotony hurts. Brendon still can't look at him.

Dr. Shelley takes a pen from behind her ear and makes a note on the chart. "Mmhm. And in this month, what's been going on?"

Confession time. Brendon stares down at his hands and fiddles with the sheets of the bed. "I've been tired all the time, nauseated, and shaky. It's hard to stand sometimes it gets so bad." He bit his lip. "I've been throwing up almost every night or early in the morning."

Dr. Shelley's eyebrows draw together. "Huh. Anything else?"

Brendon shakes his head. "Not really."

She tucks her pen back behind her ear. "Well, press that red button to your right if you need anything. Don't hesitate. I'll be back to check up on you later and I'll keep you," she looks at Ryan, "updated."

Ryan nods at her. "Thank you."

She smiles and leaves and the tension is back. Brendon forces himself to look up at Ryan and wishes Ryan would talk first so he doesn't have to.

"I said we were engaged to stay in here with you," Ryan says quietly. "They made Jon and Spencer leave after visiting hours."

"Oh." Then it's quiet again. Brendon can't stand it; he takes a deep breath. "Don't be mad, Ryan."

"I'm not." Brendon looks at him skeptically, so he says, "Really."

"I didn't want you to worry."

"You didn't want me to worry." Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes tight. "And I suppose this was this part of your brilliant plan, Brendon? Ending up in a hospital bed?"

Actually, the whole thing sounds strangely like it came from one of their first songs. Brendon doesn't appreciate the irony. "No. I didn't think about that."

"You didn't…" He trails off and closes his eyes tighter.

"I'm not a little kid, Ryan. Stop trying to make me feel guiltier than I already do." Brendon would glare if he could, but he's still so tired and he doesn't have the energy to fight, especially not with Ryan. "I'm fine."

Ryan drops his hand from his face and opens his eyes. They're beautiful as ever, honey-brown, but they're usually steady with dreamy undertones. Now they're shaky. Lost. Brendon shivers a little and Ryan says, "What if you're not?"

 

***

 

Ryan, Brendon finds out, is not technically allowed in his room outside visiting hours, despite his assumed status as fiancé. He has to fight the nurses tooth and nail so they won't throw him out, and those women are vicious about their patients getting rest.

Ryan, however, is ten times as vicious as any nurse and, though he has to bribe guards with autographs for their teenagers when the nurses finally call security, he wins out in the end.

Brendon is touched, but wishes Ryan would go home to sleep at least, instead of sleeping in a chair with an extra sheet around his shoulders.

"Ryan," he calls to him and is shocked by how weak his own voice sounds amongst the clamor of a hospital, muffled by the thick wooden door. He shakes it off and repeats himself. "Ryan, you really should go back home."

Ryan looks up at him from some magazine he hasn't actually been reading. There are smudges under his sunken eyes and his irises are dull. His hair is in utter disarray and pieces of it are sticking up everywhere, combed through with fingers too many times in the past twenty-four hours. "We're in Chicago."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. Go back to the bus. Or get a hotel room or something." He tries to sit up, but he feels heavy all over and he finally just sinks back into his pillow. "You look like hell."

Ryan stares blankly at him and slowly straightens, standing up and placing the magazine in his seat. He stretches his arms over his head and then reaches into his back pocket. He produces a small black compact that Brendon assumes is for emergency eyeliner situations and flips it open. He stares at himself for a second, and then walks over to Brendon, sitting on his bed. "You think I look like hell?"

Brendon doesn't nod, doesn't so much as move, because he knows that isn't really a question. He just waits for the point.

Ryan shifts and leans back. Brendon has to shuffle to the right to make room and it still isn't enough. The bed was obviously not made for two twenty-somethings to share. Ryan rests his head next to Brendon's and holds the compact above them. "Who do you think looks worse?"

Brendon glances up into the mirror and sees a tired Ryan and. Someone that looks like a ghost of what Brendon used to be. He winces and looks away.

Ryan snaps the compact shut. "You look like you got punched in the eyes. Your skin is whiter than anything I've ever seen. You're tiny, scary tiny. I can't believe you got away with looking like this for so long without any of us noticing."

Brendon carefully turns onto his side toward Ryan, making sure that the IV line is long enough for the transition, and gazes up at Ryan. "You were busy. We've all been busy. Touring is crazy. That's why I didn't go get a check up myself." He raises his hand and tries to fix Ryan's bangs a little. "There just wasn't time."

"We should've noticed."

Ryan doesn't say it, but Brendon knows that "We" is actually "I" and Ryan is blaming himself for this. He'd rather feel guilty for the rest of his life for being this stupid than have Ryan take the blame.

"Hey." Brendon's fingers curl around the back of Ryan's neck, skimming the fine hairs at the base of his hairline. "This. This is just me being an idiot, okay? This is me reverting back to my teenage-imagined invincibility. You guys were all so busy you couldn't think past 'Is this the right chord?' and 'Damn, another mob of girls I have to avoid.' It's not your fault."

Ryan's eyes wander over Brendon's face, searching, and Brendon wishes he knew what Ryan was searching for so he could give it to him. He tries for a smile. Ryan doesn't respond, doesn't even smile back, and moves to get up.

Brendon grabs the edge of Ryan's shirt in his desperation. "Don't." Ryan looks back down at him, and he looks so tired. Brendon has a strong urge to cry. Or yell. Or something. He doesn't know; he just wants to make Ryan okay. "Don't get up. Stay."

Ryan watches him again and Brendon can't think of what Ryan could want him to do. So he does what he would do if they were at home and not in a stupid hospital room. His eyes get big and he sticks out his lower lip. "Please?"

Ryan watches. And then cracks a small smile. He lowers himself back down onto his side, facing Brendon. "Whatever."

Brendon grins and presses flush against Ryan, tucking his face into Ryan's neck, just below his ear. "Thanks," he breathes against his skin.

Ryan nods and wraps an arm around his waist. "The nurses are going to kill me now."

Brendon laughs softly, his breath puffing along Ryan's neck. "Yeah. Maybe you can sign some more autographs or something."

"Ugh, God no." Ryan sniffs. "I'll get Jon and Spencer to do it when they come in. The guards probably want a full set of signatures for their daughters anyway."

"I'm sure." Brendon shakes his head and tries not to laugh too hard and spoil the quiet moment. He presses his lips to Ryan's skin. "Go to sleep, Ryan. Spencer will kill me if he sees you like this by visiting hours."

"Mm." And it's all of five minutes before Ryan's breath levels out.

It's all of ten before Brendon's follows suite.

 

***

 

"Kid." A voice invades Brendon's dream about music and Ryan and something about Serta sheep. "Hey, Brendon, wake up."

"Spencer is coming and he's going to chew you up and spit you out again. I'm trying to save your life, kiddo."

Brendon jerks up, his hair swooshing back with the speed of the movement. Unfortunately, he is taped to an IV line and accidentally moves his hand too far. He yelps and curls in on himself.

Jon and Ryan, who had woken up only a few minutes before Brendon, both panic. "Are you all right? Brendon, Brendon, are you okay? Jesus Christ, Brendon."

Jon gently coaxes Brendon's hand away from his chest and inspects the still taped IV. "It looks okay, I think."

Brendon sniffles and takes his hand back, holding it gingerly. "I think I'm dying."

"If you aren't now, you will be soon."

Everyone looks up and Brendon tries to shrink into something smaller than a germ when he sees Spencer Smith looming in the doorway. He settles for half-hiding behind Ryan. Ryan, to his credit, lets him. Brendon makes a mental note that Ryan deserves some amazing head later for being that brave. Way later, though. Like, when Brendon isn't scared for his life.

Spencer finally enters the room fully, shutting the door behind him. It closes with a snap of finality that makes Brendon jump. "Did you two just wake up?"

Ryan nods. "Yeah. Sleeping in the chair sucked so I forced Brendon to share the bed."

"Good." The reply is razor-sharp and obviously aimed at Brendon. Brendon tries to tuck his face into Ryan's shoulder. "You both look like shit."

Brendon snorts. Ryan smiles. "Yeah, we know."

"Which brings me to something else." Blue eyes pierce straight through Brendon's forehead. "Brendon, what the _fuck _was _that_?"

"Should I… Do you want me to answer that or..?" Brendon mutters haplessly into Ryan's shirt.

"Go for it." Spencer cocks a hip and crosses his arms. "I'd like to see you _try _and make this situation better. Dig that hole as deep as possible, Brendon."

Brendon is silent for a second, contemplative. Slowly, he begins his explanation. "Well, I started feeling bad, but we were all too busy with shows and stuff to really do anything about it so I just ignored it."

Spencer nods. "Mmhm."

Brendon continues, "And then it got worse and the vomiting didn't stop. But we were still busy. I didn't want to bother everyone with it so I just shut up and kept singing and playing whatever instrument people put in my hands. Afterwards, I would go home and sleep as much as I could before I started throwing up again. So I didn't eat a lot. I wasn't hungry anyway, but I guess I lost some weight."

"A lot of weight, according to the doctors." Spencer's gaze is steady and cold. "Keep going."

"Okay, I lost a lot of weight. But no one said anything so I figured it wasn't that bad. Then I woke up one morning to puke again and looked in the mirror and saw," he waves his hand at his face, "this. And I knew someone would notice soon if I didn't do something about it, so I bought some foundation the next day."

"And you began actively hiding something so important that your life literally depended on it from us." Spencer purses his lips. "Nice."

Brendon's eyes fall to the bed's sheets. "Look, can we not do this? I was wrong, I get it."

"You were an idiot. And an asshole." Spencer's hands flail out a little. "Do you even get that they don't know what's wrong with you yet, that you could be dying and no one would've known until you dropped dead if you hadn't passed out first? Do you even care about what that would do to us?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I screwed up. The band-"

"Fuck the band, Brendon," Spencer yells and everyone backs away a little. Spencer never yells. He never has to. His quiet fury is always enough to inspire fear and quick correction in whomever it's aimed at. "We're your best friends, you ass."

Spencer goes quiet then, and Brendon has never felt more like a jerk in his entire life.

Jon goes to stand beside Spencer and puts an arm around his shoulders. Spencer stiffly leans against him, like he's trying to be strong but just can't manage by himself at this point. "You scared us, man."

Brendon nods. "Yeah, I know."

"Do you?" Jon asks, rubbing Spencer's shoulder comfortingly.

Brendon looks around at everyone in the room.

First at Jon. His big brother-slash-hug buddy-slash-most awesome dude ever. Jon was there to fill the gaping hole that Brent left behind, both musically and in their hearts. Jon watches hours of Disney movies with him, takes him to the coolest small town bands in every city they pass through, got him so drunk on his twenty-first birthday that he slept inside a bathtub to drain whatever bodily fluid happened to come up next.

Jon is staring at him with dark eyes and no smile and is holding Spencer tight, tighter and Brendon suspects a large part of holding Spencer together is to hold Jon together too.

Then, Spencer. Spencer is his other big brother-slash-sometimes mom or dad-slash-other most awesome dude ever. He's so cool, way cooler than Brendon can ever hope to be. He's a sarcastic bastard sometimes and he has this way with words that makes you feel like an idiot and completely unworthy of his presence, but, aside from Ryan, there's no one he'd rather cuddle with. Spencer is squishy in all the right places and he has the best smile Brendon has ever seen, hands down. Spencer is basically the band's manager; he tells everyone what to do, how to do it, and, almost always, that they're doing it wrong. He's amazing and Brendon sort of reveres him.

Now, Spencer is looking between Brendon and Jon, his eyes hard but hurting, his lips curling and uncurling with biting words left unsaid, his main defense mechanism.

And then. Then there's Ryan. Ryan who stayed up with him when he got his first hangover, despite his past experiences with alcohol. Ryan who first truly accepted him into the original Panic! at the Disco. Ryan who caught Brendon that first night of throwing up and knew that Brendon was lying when he said he was okay. Ryan who feels like this is his fault because Brendon is stupid and didn't say anything. Ryan, his boyfriend, who deserves better than to be lied to for an entire month.

Brendon opens his arms and makes grabby hands at Spencer and Jon, slipping one arm around Ryan's waist. Jon ushers Spencer in front of him and, though Spencer seems reluctant, he enters the circle of Brendon's embrace with Jon close behind him. They all hug Brendon tightly, and he clings to them in return. His reply is muffled between Spencer's shirt and Ryan's hair. "Yeah, I know."


	2. Rock-a-Bye Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. _Please_. [](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/profile)[**hopefulgenius**](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/) is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.

After one more full day (and two more huge tubes of blood that Brendon passes out over), a nurse comes in and tells him that they can't find a problem. "But Dr. Shelley still seems very worried, Mr. Urie. She's hesitatingly letting you leave and is going to continue with the tests. She prescribed an anti-sickness medicine for the vomiting and a mild antibiotic just in case. She also requests bed rest for at least one more week."

"One week? But I've already been out of commission for three days." The fans are going to murder him in his sleep for making them pay sixty dollars a pop for those tickets now. He's sure that they're going to be refunded, but he doubts that'll be any consolation to them. Crap. "I don't even think we're supposed to be in this city right now."

Jon says, "We were supposed to leave for New York yesterday."

"But we can cancel those shows as quickly as we cancelled the last one." Spencer leans against Jon's side, not smiling in a very deliberate way.

The nurse looks down at Brendon's chart, her eyes scanning the page. "Dr. Shelley would like me to tell you that she's only letting you leave because we're filling up all the rooms more quickly than usual and we can't afford to take up space for an unsure thing. She says she wants me to threaten you with calling the Health Department and making false accusations if you leave the city this week."

Brendon blinks. "Did I just get blackmailed?"

The corner of Spencer's mouth twitches up. "I like this doctor."

"But what if I have to? I don't live in this city; what if something comes up?" Brendon protests. He doesn't like being strapped down like this.

The nurse flips the page and reads some more. "She said you would make that argument and that she wants you to know that she's serious. She'll call the Health Department on your… uh… ass."

Jon laughs hard. Ryan and Spencer grin.

Jon throws an arm around Brendon's shoulder, tousling his hair fondly. "Tell Dr. Shelley that Brendon isn't going anywhere for the next seven days. We'll chain him to his bed if we have to."

Brendon squawks, but Spencer agrees and that's that.

 

***

 

Brendon despises his bed. The others won't let him leave it other than to move to the couch for the television or to go to the bathroom. He hasn't seen the sun in forever and he's about to come apart, he can feel it.

Some of being on bed rest is cool. No one makes him make food or go get it; hell, no one even makes him get up for his own food. They bring it to him and let him eat it in bed. He doesn't throw up all night anymore thanks to the anti-sickness pills, and that is totally awesome except that it means he has more energy.

He is going to die if someone doesn't let him move outside of the bus within the next day or so.

He's playing goldfish with Jon when Ryan's sidekick rings. After he looks at the ID he puts it on speakerphone. "Hey, Dr. Shelley." Brendon glares at the phone. Ryan looks at him reprovingly. "What's up?"

"Don't panic, all right? I need you to bring Brendon back to the hospital immediately. I," she pauses and takes a deep breath that statics over the phone, "I might have found something in the blood tests."

Ryan and Brendon look at each other and Ryan says, "We'll be there in ten. Five."

 

***

 

Brendon's shaking the entire ride to the hospital. He hasn't been scared up to this point, not really. He's always been impeccably healthy, has never even broken a bone before. He can't remember the last time he was sicker than a cold or a sore throat.

Ryan's driving and concentrating way too hard on the road to actually be paying attention to it. He keeps cutting in front of people and blowing straight through stop signs. At a red light, he finally stops long enough to take Brendon's hand.

"Ryan," Spencer says evenly from the back seat, "getting us killed on the way to the hospital is not going to make Brendon better faster."

"Sorry," Ryan mumbles, still intensely watching the road. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, Brendon," Jon says from beside Spencer, "you're gonna be fine."

Brendon smiles as best he can into the rearview mirror. "Yeah."

 

***

 

Dr. Shelley meets them in the front lobby, Brendon's chart in hand. He wonders if it's just him or if the chart has gotten substantially thicker in the five days it's been since he was last at the hospital.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," she says. Her eyes are bright and there's a line between her eyebrows like she's been concentrating a lot recently. She turns, her lab coat puffing out behind her and gestures toward them. "I'd like it if Mr. Ross and Mr. Urie followed me. Mr. Smith, Mr. Walker, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to stay in here and wait. The room we're going to is fairly small and Mr. Urie might need some room to breathe."

The color in Brendon's face drains completely. The only thing that keeps him up at that moment is Jon's hand gripping his shoulder.

Spencer pats his back. "We'll be right here when you get back."

Jon nods, grinning his biggest grin. "Right here. You'll be fine."

Brendon doesn't want to leave them. If something happens and he's… if he's… not okay, he doesn't want to find out without Jon's lazy smile and bear hugs. He doesn't want to know if Spencer isn't going to be there with his calm, quick mind and unshakable stability. He forces himself not to reach out to them as they go through the door into the main hospital and grabs Ryan's hand instead.

Ryan squeezes gently, like he knows what Brendon's thinking. Brendon looks away, ashamed, and Ryan leans toward him. "Hey, no. I'd want them too."

Brendon's arms are around Ryan's neck before he even knows he wants to hug him and he holds on tight. Ryan hugs him back as hard as he can in the middle of the hospital's hallway.

Ryan's never been one for public displays of affection and Brendon knows that this must be an act of desperation. Ryan is scared too. Brendon's grip on Ryan tightens and he buries his face in Ryan's shoulder.

"Excuse me." Brendon unwillingly looks up. Dr. Shelley is standing a few feet away from them, holding a door open. "Mr. Urie, Mr. Ross, this way."

Brendon has to tear himself off of Ryan and can't smile at Dr. Shelley as he passes her, even if none of this is her fault.

"Please lie down on the table here and lift your shirt to your chest, Mr. Urie." She pats a paper covered table. "And, Mr. Ross, you may have a seat over there if you want."

Ryan looks at the two chairs in the corner. "Can I just hold Brendon's hand instead?"

"Of course."

Brendon smiles gratefully at Ryan. Ryan takes his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Go lay down, Brendon."

Brendon does, pushing his shirt up to mid-chest. The paper on the bed crinkles loudly and the room is honestly too quiet for something so noisy.

Dr. Shelley gets a machine from the corner of the room, rolling it up to the side of the stretcher. "All right, everyone, this is a Doppler ultrasound machine. It sends high level frequency sounds through you and gives us an image of your insides here." She taps a small screen on the machine. "Any questions?"

Both Brendon and Ryan shake their heads. Dr. Shelley smiles. "All right then. Mr. Urie, I'm going to spread some jelly on your stomach to help the machine work. It's going to be cold, but it shouldn't hurt."

She squirts the jelly onto Brendon's stomach and his muscles flutter beneath it. It's freezing but not that bad so Brendon waits quietly and tries not to fidget. Dr. Shelley flips a switch and the machine hums to life. She presses what she calls a transducer down across the jelly and a static filled, black and white image fills the screen. A soft, pattering sound fills the silence and Dr. Shelley's jaw drops. "Oh," she whispers to herself. "Oh, my God."

"Dr. Shelley," Brendon stares at the screen, unable to breathe, "what's wrong?"

Dr. Shelley shakes her head and keeps watching the screen, moving the transducer. She stops when the pattering reaches its loudest point. "Mr. Ross, would you please hold this for a minute?"

Ryan nods. Dr. Shelley hands off the transducer to him and goes to a white phone on the wall, picking it up. Without preamble she says, "I need an obstetrician in Room 127 ASAP."

Brendon looks up at Ryan with wide, fearful eyes. He's terrified and wishes someone would tell him what's happening. His hand is shaking, even with Ryan's so tight around it. "Obstetrician?"

Ryan doesn't look away from the screen. He's so still, every part of him. Even his mouth barely moves when he speaks. "A baby doctor."

Brendon feels cold and sick. "What?"

Another woman comes in, this one with straight, dark brown hair, a stark contrast to Dr. Shelley's blond curls. Dr. Shelley grabs the woman's hand and pulls her over. "This is Dr. Marie Blake," she introduces her quickly before taking the transducer back and turning to Dr. Blake. "Marie, what do you make of this?"

Dr. Blake stares at the machine and opens her mouth, looks at Brendon, and closes her mouth again. After a moment, she asks, "May I?" and takes the transducer from Dr. Shelley. She moves it across Brendon's stomach slowly, carefully, and finally stops when the static is more black than white. "Helen, I. I can't believe what I'm seeing."

"What?" Brendon asks, his voice small. He can feel the bile rising in his throat and his breathing is coming fast, too fast. "What's wrong with me?"

"Congratulations, Brendon," Dr. Shelley says softly. "You're going to have a baby."

Brendon sits up and Ryan dives for a wastebasket near the door. Brendon barely has time to shove his face into the trashcan before he throws up.

 

***

 

"If it was going to happen to anyone," Spencer says, his voice muffled between his hands, "it was going to happen to Brendon."

Jon and Spencer had taken the news fairly well, as well as could be expected anyway. Brendon was relieved that no one laughed when Dr. Shelley and Dr. Blake made the announcement. He would have probably gone into hysterics. He still might go into hysterics. This is insane.

Mostly, though, he's just tired. After throwing up he'd felt drained of everything, almost numb but not numb enough to smother the terror quickly tying a knot in the center of his chest.

Dr. Shelley and Ryan had helped him lay down once everything was out of his stomach. They'd tried to clean up the jelly, but he'd gotten it everywhere and they couldn't get all of it out of his shirt. He feels sticky and uncomfortable. He wants to go home and go to sleep and forget today ever happened.

Dr. Blake is talking now. She sounds like she's grasping at straws trying to explain how this happened. She seems utterly fascinated by Brendon's "situation" as she keeps calling it and he's starting to feel like a science project.

He vows never to use anything tested on animals again. He knows too well how a lab rat must feel.

"This is a major medical breakthrough," Dr. Blake continues. "It completely throws me for a loop and I can only imagine what the medical community would say once they got wind of it. There has to be some sort of quasi-uterus and genetic mutation or… something, I can't even think right now."

Spencer went rigid the moment Dr. Blake said breakthrough. "You understand, of course, that this can't get out. To anyone."

"We don't like suing people," Jon says offhandedly, smiling his languid little smile. Brendon's never noticed before, but Jon's super casual manner is scary when used in a certain context. It's almost hitman-esque. Or like a freaky serial killer out to eat your heart or wear your skin or something.

"Of course not," Dr. Shelley assures them before Dr. Blake can open her mouth. "We wouldn't dream of breaking doctor-patient confidentiality. Especially in such a delicate situation."

"Thank you." How can Jon be that cool? He can threaten people and be friendly at the same time. Are you born like that or do you, like, train for it or what? "We really appreciate it."

Dr. Blake sighs wistfully. "Still, this is amazing."

Brendon doesn't like Dr. Blake. She seems to mean well enough, but he gets the feeling that she would only be too happy to scream to the world her new discovery if he so much as hints at a possible okay. He plans on telling the guys later so he doesn't have to see her again.

"I get how weird this is, trust me," Ryan says, the first words he's spoken since they were told that… since they were told. "But now what?"

"That," Dr. Shelley says, "is up to Brendon."

Hearing his name, Brendon looks up. "What?"

"Mr. Urie, I know that this has to be an information overload right now, but it's critical that we act now no matter what you decision may be."

Brendon isn't stupid. He knows what the doctor is saying; he just can't seem to wrap is mind around it. "What?"

"Brendon," Dr. Shelley's eyes connect with his, "if you plan on terminating this pregnancy, then you need to do it soon before the fetus grows much more for your own health. A baby is essentially a parasite and I doubt your body is equipped for such an undertaking on its own. If you plan on seeing the pregnancy through, then we need to put you on vitamins and hormones quickly to keep both of you in as healthy a condition as possible. I'm not saying that you have to make these decisions now, but they need to be made soon."

Brendon's head hurts. This is too much, all of it is too much. In the past week he has passed out on stage, been in and out of the hospital, gotten yelled at by all of his bandmates, thought he was dying, and found out that he was pregnant. And now he has to decide if he wants to stay that way too? Can't a guy get a break?

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "What do you think I should do, Dr. Shelley?"

"Brendon, I'm not really supposed to-"

"No, please. I want your opinion."

She pauses. When she speaks, the words are slow and carefully thought out. "As a researcher, I'd love for you to continue the pregnancy. Studying it and the birth would be amazing. As a doctor, I have to tell you that the risks are incredible. The likelihood of the fetus coming to term at all is tiny. It's only as big as a poppy seed and can be wiped out with a couple pills at this stage. As a person, I have to say that it's completely your call. The rest is up to you, Brendon. In no way should you feel pressured by anyone in this room to keep the fetus or to abort it. You're the one who will have to live with the result of your decision."

Breathing is getting hard again and Brendon is starting to get light-headed. Most of him is saying to have the fetus aborted. It's the smart thing to do, even the right thing. No child deserves to be born like this, with everything against them. He's only a kid himself most of the time, not to mention the fact that his career, the perfect job of his dreams, is still at its climax and he rarely sees his own condo anymore. How is he supposed to raise a baby like that?

Right. Getting an abortion is the best choice. It's the only choice, really.

"I," and then he stops. His mouth completely loses its ability to function. He can't do it. Brendon can't say that he wants to stop this pregnancy. He knows that if he did, he would feel like he'd just murdered his child. His and Ryan's baby.

"Ryan," he opens his eyes and holds out his hand.

Ryan takes it and kneels down so that they're at eye level. "Yeah, Brendon?"

Ryan's face is carefully blank and Brendon thinks that he appreciates it, but isn't positive. "Ryan," he repeats, "I want this baby."

Something flicks across Ryan's face, over his mouth, in his eyes, but it's so fast that Brendon can't decipher what it means. "Are you sure?"

"That sound on the ultrasound machine, it was the baby's heartbeat. That was our baby's heartbeat." His voice cracks. His explanation is so weak, so pathetic, but it's the soft beat of the tiny heart on the ultrasound speakers that won't get out of his head and he doesn't know what else to say. "I want this baby more than anything."

Ryan leans forward and kisses his forehead. "Okay."

 

***

 

Dr. Blake completely takes over after that. She's like a kid in a candy store except that instead of begging for lollipops, she wants every test known to man performed on Brendon. Once she's taken enough blood to feed a small clan of vampires, she prescribes hormones, a prenatal vitamin, and morning sickness pills.

Brendon runs out of the hospital as soon as she lets him. Ryan has to check him out because Brendon can't even wait that long to leave. His arms are achy and bruised from needles and he's still sticky with jelly and he wants to go home.

Now.

He waits impatiently in the passenger's seat of the car. Spencer and Jon follow him, sliding into the backseat. He's about to ask one of them to drive up to the front of the hospital and pick Ryan up (he doesn't trust himself to drive) so they can leave already when he notices that Jon's giving Spencer money.

Whoa, lots of money.

He blinks. "What the hell?"

"We made a bet a long time ago, when I first joined Panic," Jon explains, his face set in a grim expression.

"And Jon just lost two grand," Spencer adds smugly, his palm outstretched as he waits for Jon to empty his wallet. When he finally runs out of bills, he looks up at Spencer pleadingly. Spencer just smirks. "We accept all major credit cards too, Walker."

"Oh." Brendon shifts around in his seat, curiosity getting the better of him. "What was the bet about?"

Spencer starts counting bills, carefully folding each out. "Who tops in the Ryden dynamic."

If Brendon could have died right there he would have. Instead, he settles for trying to climb over his seat to strangle Jon and Spencer.

 

***

 

"We have to call Pete."

Brendon winces visibly, but doesn't look away from his Gameboy. He's known since he passed out that Pete would have to know what was going on. The amount of money they were losing on unplayed shows and bad press had to be enormous. Brendon had changed a glance onto LiveJournal for their fans' opinions earlier that morning. Many of the older fans were frantic about his health, which was sweet but creepy since they didn't know him personally. Unfortunately, the pre-teens were throwing fits.

"this iz ratrted," one wrote, "$60 clams n i got nuthin!!! Bden betre get up or get uot of showbiz!!"

One that particularly stung was a comment on YouTube where someone insisted that he'd been lip-synching. He watched the video of himself passing out and he can't understand what they're talking about. When he hits the floor in the video, his voice stops, the end.

He's seen pictures of himself coming out of the hospital on the front of the tabloids. They are picking apart how thin he looks and have pictures of him six months ago to emphasize the amount of weight he's lost. 'Manorexia' is splashed in bright red and yellow letters across several major gossip magazines.

How stupid do you have to be to make up a word like manorexia?

Anyway, someone needs to talk to Pete and tell him their side of the story. But Brendon so doesn't want to. He groans. "Don't make me."

"We have to." Ryan's mouth settles into a thin line as he checks his sidekick for the millionth time in the past few days. "He won't stop texting me."

"Turn off your phone."

Ryan looks at him incredulously.

Brendon pouts. "Well, I turned mine off."

"Brendon."

"Fine, fine." Brendon turns off his Gameboy and crawls over Ryan's lap, lying across it like a cat in need of scratching. "Put him on speaker phone. There's no way I'm telling him by myself."

Ryan nods and presses four on speed dial. Pete, Patrick, and Spencer's mom are the only ones outside of the band on his speed dial. Brendon prides himself on being number two. Spencer is ahead of him, but he can deal with that.

Pete picks up on the second ring. "Ryan Ross, care to tell me why your boyfriend is on the cover of the magazine in front of me right now?" He doesn't sound mad at all, or even particularly worried. Pete's voice is smooth and very calm, too calm, and Brendon is willing to bet Patrick is somewhere nearby, cushioning all parties from Pete's (more than) occasional bitchiness. Thank God for short strawberry-blondes.

"He's-"

"-a dumbass. Yeah, I know." Brendon rolls his eyes up at the ceiling. He's never going to live this down.

Ryan pats his stomach reassuringly. "I was going to say sick, but that too."

Pete snorts. "Yeah, I gathered that much from the photos. Why haven't any of you fuckers been answering your phones? I've been trying to get a hold of all of you since Brendon's blackout."

The way Pete says 'Brendon's blackout' sounds like the words should be in capital letters. "Brendon's Blackout." Brendon repeats. "Is that what the kids are calling it, Pete?"

"Shut up, Brendon. What the hell happened to you, man? I don't know if you realize this or not, but passing out on stage isn't a trend that a frontman should get into."

"Twice, Pete. Twice." Brendon glares at Ryan's phone. "I don't exactly call that a trend. And the first time wasn't even my fault, if you didn't catch that memo."

"And this time?"

Brendon's eyes land on Ryan. He shrugs and Ryan sighs. "Brendon was really sick and didn't tell anyone. He says we were too busy for him to care about medical attention."

"In his defense," Patrick's voice is distant, but clear, "it's not like he's the only one on the label who does that, Pete."

"Why, Patrick, are you implying something?" Pete's voice is distant too, now, like he's holding the phone away from his mouth.

"No. Anyway, ask him what the doctors at the hospital said. Do you want mustard on your sandwich?"

"Mmhm. What would I do without you, Patrick?"

"Make your own damn sandwiches."

Pete's voice comes back loud and smiling. "Patrick wants to know what the doctor said."

Brendon tenses and Ryan's hand glides up his stomach and back down past his hip bones in wide circles. He thinks Ryan's mean for going that far past his hips without going further.

"Pete," Ryan says, "you need to sit down for this."

"Shit, what's wrong with Brendon?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you, Pete."

"Is it, like, cancer or something? Shit, tell me it's not something like that."

Brendon looks down at his stomach and splays a hand over the flat surface. There's not even extra thickness there, no indication whatsoever of the baby, but he imagines he can feel the baby's heartbeat against his palm. "Well, it's an abnormal growth, I guess. Not exactly cancer, but."

He imagines the baby kicking at his insides for calling him an 'it' and an abnormal growth in the same sentence. He feels a little guilty but wonders how the baby got Spencer's bad attitude. Probably by osmosis, poor baby.

Pete doesn't say anything for a second. Then, "What?"

"You're not going to believe this, but I swear it's true, Pete." Ryan takes a deep breath and says it carefully. "Brendon is pregnant."

There's a loud clatter as the phone hits the floor. Brendon can hear shuffling in the background and Patrick asking Pete if he's okay.

When the phone is picked up again, it's Patrick's voice that says, "Hello?"

Brendon tosses his head back and laughs.

Ryan coughs to stop himself from laughing like a maniac. "We told him to sit down."

"I think he's in shock. Pete, are you okay? What the fuck did you tell him?"

"Sit down, Patrick."

Patrick huffs. "I am sitting."

"Brendon's pregnant."

The phone hits the floor. Ryan laughs so hard he collapses across Brendon's stomach.

The baby likes Ryan's laugh; Brendon can just tell.

 

***

 

July: Month Three

Ryan doesn't ask Pete or Patrick to keep the pregnancy a secret. It goes without saying that anything that happens in FBR/DD stays in FBR/DD. Keeping it from the other people in the circle though? Pete couldn't do it if his life depended on it.

Ryan is tempted to turn off his phone like Brendon suggested, but can't bring himself to do it.

He'll admit it. He's addicted to technology. There should be techno-rehab.

Since there isn't, Ryan has to keep his phone on. Way to go, logical fallacies.

Ryan has two hundred seventeen texts, most of which are Pete teasing him, seventy-four missed calls, and twenty three unheard voicemails. He wonders what Brendon's phone has to be going through right now. Out of curiosity, Ryan turns on his boyfriend's sidekick for ten minutes. It doesn't stop buzzing the entire time.

Ryan quickly turns it off and stuffs it under a pillow on Brendon's still unused bunk for good measure. "Brendon," he calls into the front of the bus where the kitchen-like thing is, "don't turn on your phone."

Brendon's head pops up from behind a corner and he's chewing something rather loudly. "How come?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Just don't do it."

Brendon laughs and disappears back behind the corner. When he returns, his arms are full of food, mostly of condiments, and he dumps them on Ryan's bunk before crawling up beside him. "How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad." Ryan eyes the random food. He's never liked people eating in his bed, too many crumbs, but he figures he can let this one slide. "What are you eating?"

Brendon looks at his bounty and begins lining items up in no particular order. "Everything."

"I see that." Ryan stares at a huge jar of mayonnaise. "Brendon, you hate mayonnaise. You barely let us keep it on the bus."

Brendon picks up the jar, unscrews the lid and dips his finger in the thick white paste. Ryan can't believe it when Brendon scoops it out and eats it. Brendon closes his eyes and hums contentedly. "S'good."

Ryan remembers once going to a restaurant that put mayonnaise on Brendon's sandwich accidentally. He'd almost gotten sick, and that was just from one tiny bite.

Hell, Ryan likes mayonnaise just fine and he couldn't eat it right off his finger. "That's… weird."

Brendon shrugs and dips his finger in again. "So what is everyone saying?"

Ryan can only watch in horror and disgust as Brendon continues to eat. "Mostly everyone is asking how it happened and if Pete was lying to them. Gabe and his people say congratulations and are asking when the baby is due. Apparently, they plan on kidnapping him and dubbing him The Littlest Cobra."

Brendon stops eating with his finger half in his mouth. "Wha?"

Ryan nods and reached for a half-gone can of Pringles. "Yeah. We're not letting him baby-sit."

Brendon's eyes follow the Pringles. It's hard for Ryan to ignore his longing glances, but he succeeds for the most part. Finally Brendon says, "Are you gonna eat all of those?"

Ryan pops one into his mouth. "Yes. Why? You already ate half."

"I was going to eat the rest of the cookie dough ice cream with them later."

"That's Spencer's ice cream." Why is it that Ryan is less opposed to Pringles and ice cream than eating Spencer's food? "You got pistachio, remember?"

"But I ate that, like, three days ago," Brendon whines.

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Brendon, you only got it last night. And Spencer might kill you for messing with his ice cream."

"Spencer loves me," Brendon says pointedly, "unlike some people."

Ryan pats his knee. "Come on. You know Jon loves you just fine."

"_Ryan_."

"You ate Spencer's ham sandwich yesterday, Brendon. I'm trying to save your life here."

Brendon huffs and jams his finger back into the mayonnaise jar. "Look, it's not my fault I'm always starving anymore."

Ryan looks down at Brendon's stomach. It's still pretty flat, as flat as it was before Brendon lost all the weight in the beginning, anyway. Ryan has always been the eater on the bus, but ever since Brendon got the morning sickness pills he's been eating everything in sight. Ryan can't figure out where he puts it all. He eats another chip in contemplation. "You aren't showing yet."

Brendon's hand drops to his stomach. "Dr. Shelley said I wouldn't until I hit my second trimester in a couple of weeks."

That's so close and Brendon refuses to miss anymore shows. (Both Dr. Shelley and Ryan had thrown fits over Brendon performing in his condition, but Brendon was insistent and he would just die if he couldn't start singing again.)

They have to hurry and finish the tour before Brendon starts gaining weight or someone's going to say something. No one would guess the reason for Brendon's weight, but the press would still be relentless about it. And if Brendon wants to stay out of the limelight when he's more baby than Brendon then he's got to keep attention off himself.

Ryan sighs. This baby is going to just be a bunch of trouble until it's born, he knows it. After it's born too, probably.

Ryan holds out the Pringles, a gift of silent consolation that Brendon takes with a winning grin. "I love you, Ryan Ross." He pops a chip into his mouth and hums again. "Baby says he loves you too."

He nods and watches Brendon eat.

 

***

 

When Dr. Shelley had first given Brendon the hormones, she'd warned him about potential side effects. They mostly consisted of weight gain (already going to happen anyway), hair growth (whatever, he's a guy), and emotional outbursts.

Brendon is hoping that that's why he feels like Ryan isn't on board with the whole baby thing.

He tells himself that it's an unfair assumption. Ryan has been nothing but supportive since Brendon's decision to keep the baby. He's given over his food, gone out for midnight shopping trips, and rubbed his back when he was in front of the toilet again after forgetting to take his medicine. He's been by Brendon's side every step of the way.

But there are times when Brendon catches Ryan watching him, watching his stomach, and he doesn't look amazed or adoring or even fond. Granted, soft looks from Ryan are rare, but shouldn't there be something more than a completely blank expression on his face?

Brendon pushes the thought away and locks it in a trunk somewhere in the back of his mind. Ryan is just being Ryan. It's not his fault.

Brendon repeats this to himself until he feels like shit for thinking Ryan would ever not want the baby. But the feeling doesn't stop. He needs to know. But he can't ask Ryan. It would seem like an accusation and Brendon couldn't do that.

So he asks Spencer instead.

"I don't know what he thinks, Brendon," Spencer replies with a shrug as he helps set up his kit for tonight's performance. "It's Ryan. How could I?"

"You've been BFF forever, Spence," Brendon pleads quietly. Ryan is somewhere backstage getting ready, but Brendon isn't sure how long that will take. "He's got to have said something."

Spencer twirls one of his drumsticks over his knuckles and shakes his head. "He hasn't talked to me about it."

Brendon's eyebrows draw together in frustration; he's starting to feel frantic. "Nothing? Not even a "this is so fucking weird"?"

"He'd have been right, but no."

Brendon hands wring at his shirt. "Are you- ?"

"Brendon," Spencer cuts him off, suddenly stilling his drumstick, "he hasn't talked to me. If he feels anything in particular about this thing then he's keeping it to himself."

His hands knot harder and a lump plants itself firmly in his throat. He swallows hard in an attempt to speak past it. "Oh."

Brendon tries not to look like he feels, like he's going to cry or punch a wall or maybe both at the same time.

Any response other than nothing would have been better than this. If Ryan had secretly been ecstatic over the baby then that would have been awesome. If Ryan didn't want anything to do with the baby, that would have been sad but okay too. Brendon would understand. He wouldn't have an abortion, but he wouldn't have to expect anything from Ryan either.

Spencer finally looks up from his kit and seems startled. Then he says, "Oh," and he gets up to gather Brendon into a hug.

Brendon clings like he's going to die if he doesn't.

"He's just confused," Spencer mumbles into his hair.

Brendon agrees. Spencer could have said the sky was hot pink and Brendon would have agreed.

"All of us are, okay? It's not even like accidentally getting your girlfriend pregnant. Boys are supposed to be a sure thing, you know? Safe, uncomplicated."

Brendon laughs tiredly. He always feels so weird anymore, like he doesn't fit in anywhere, like his skin fits too tight or he's too lanky. Awkward. "I'm such a freak."

Spencer hugs him tighter. "You were a freak way before you got pregnant."

Somehow that makes Brendon feel a little better. He sniffles. "I love you, Spencer Smith."

Spencer breaks the hug and smiles a little, touching Brendon's elbow reassuringly. "You should go talk to him."

The guilty feelings come back full force and Brendon lowers his gaze. "I can't. He's been really nice about it and that would ruin everything."

Spencer slides back behind his kit and begins tapping out a beat Brendon doesn't recognize. "All the stress you're keeping in is bad for the baby."

Fear grips Brendon quickly and he already knows that the baby is going to be his eternal weak spot. His hand slides over his abdomen. It's softer, squishier than it's ever been. Brendon bites his lip. "I'll ask."

 

***

 

Brendon tries to wait for the right time to bring the situation up to Ryan. He knows it's going to be tough no matter what, and he doesn't want to make everything worse by screwing it up.

So, for the next few days, Brendon lies in wait. He's as nice as he can possibly be to Ryan, not bothering him when he's reading, keeping his stuffed animals out of Ryan's side of the bunk, bringing Ryan drinks and food and not taking any even if he wants just one bite of that peanut butter so bad he'd sell his iPod. He's determined to be a perfect angel.

Ryan doesn't buy it. Two days of this, and Ryan grabs his wrist, yanking him back into a small restroom at a gas station they stop at for more gummy bears. He locks the main door behind himself and stays in front of it, like he's trying to keep Brendon from bolting. "Okay, what the hell is wrong now?"

Brendon tries at innocent ignorance. "What?"

Ryan snorts. "Come on. If I have to keep you locked in this bathroom until you tell me, I will."

Brendon looks longingly over Ryan's shoulder at the door. "Not right now. It stinks in here."

Ryan's hand settles over the door's handle for extra security. "Now is as good a time as any. Besides, there's no way I can deal with you acting like Suzie Homemaker one more day."

Brendon's hands run through his hair and float down to his stomach. Ryan's eyes follow them and light up with knowledge. "Is it okay?"

"_He_ is just fine." Brendon is tired of people talking about the baby like he isn't there or like he doesn't have his very own heartbeat or anything. Still, the emphasis on 'he' might have been more biting than he'd meant it to be.

Ryan's eyebrow arches. "Got a problem, Brendon?"

"_Yes_," Brendon hisses back. He hasn't been angry about this at all. He respects Ryan's indifference. It's not Ryan's responsibility to care about the baby. But Brendon is hurt now and he wants to lash out. "I'd greatly appreciate it if the baby was a person rather than a thing to you. Do you think you can manage that despite your complete indifferent fucker-ness right now?"

Ryan bristles and his eyes flash; the affect is dulled a little by the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, but it's still powerful and intimidating. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Come on, Ryan. It's not exactly like you've been cooing at my stomach or anything." Brendon lowers his voice a little, but it burns like acid in his mouth.

Ryan's jaw tightens. "I'm trying to be okay with this whole thing. I've been doing everything you ask, getting you all the stuff you want, making sure that you're taking all your medicines. What else could you possibly want from me?"

It's infuriating that Ryan's voice hasn't risen at all and it's taking everything for Brendon not to scream. Count to ten. Deep breath out, deep one in. Repeat. Repeat.

Repeat.

Brendon forces his shoulders to relax. "I don't want all the stuff, Ryan. I don't know." He bites his lip hard. "The truth."

"About?"

Deep breath in. "How you feel about everything." _The baby. Us. Me._

"The truth?" Ryan's chin rises a little, defiant when there's nothing to defy. "Are you sure?"

Brendon nods. "I can't deal with having to guess anymore."

He prepares himself for the worst. He has to force his eyes to stay on Ryan's face.

Deep breath out.

"I think," Ryan starts slowly, "that this is possibly the worst decision we've ever made. I think you're being selfish. The baby's quality of life probably isn't going to be great. I think this could ruin our careers. I think that you aren't ready to raise a kid because you still are one. I think you're thinking about buying baby clothes and fixing scraped knees, not crying all night or who gets up for it this time. I think this could kill you and you made a bad decision based on an emotional response to the baby's heartbeat. I think this is weird and that I can't do it. I'm not a father type. I think this entire thing is a mistake." The last sentence is almost a whisper, but the words are strong and Brendon knows he's telling the truth.

Brendon's eyes hurt, and he leans back against the sinks because his knees feel weak. He honestly thought he was ready for this. He honestly wasn't.

He clears his throat. "Yeah. Okay, I get it."

Ryan sighs. "Brendon, don't."

His hand raises to silence Ryan. "No. It's okay. I think it's weird as hell too. I do get it. But I can't hurt him." He drops his head. "I can't."

Ryan quietly watches him, listens to his controlled breathing.

Everything is silent and broken for a few minutes until Ryan looks at his watch. "Five minutes late. We were supposed to meet at the bus."

"Okay." Brendon forces himself to stand. "I'll be there in a minute."

Ryan unlocks and opens the door. "Hurry. Everyone's waiting." Then he leaves.

Brendon turns back to the sinks. He stares into the mirror above them at his reflection. He looks normal, maybe a little bloated in the tummy but fairly normal. Not particularly like his heart is about to tear out of his chest or like he's completely miserable.

He counts it as a win.

Deep, shaky breath in.

 

***

 

Brendon splashes water on his face and quickly returns to the bus, smiling ear to ear. He doesn't talk to anyone as he walks straight through it, into the bunks.

He sleeps in his own bunk for the first time nearly since the tour began and clings to his oversized stuffed tiger.

 

***

 

The tour comes to a close as Brendon slides into the bottom half of month three with the baby, and just in time too. Where he'd been able to stay fit and trim before, he's rapidly gaining weight now. He tries to wear hoodies on stage, but people seem to notice anyway. Some are okay with his hipbones not sticking out anymore. Others are furious. Brendon isn't sure why.

Either way, the tour ends, and they're flying home to Vegas at last. Brendon isn't excited like the others are.

Nothing's been the same since his fight with Ryan. They both actively avoid being together and that makes even the already small chance of running into each other nearly miniscule.

Ryan still tried to be nice to him at first. He brought Brendon food and left enough room on the couch for Brendon to sit beside him, but Brendon couldn't do it. He still hurts.

He misses Ryan though.

Going home. To Brendon, all it means is going to an empty condo, his, and being alone. He won't even get to see Ryan in dressing rooms or on stage now.

Brendon feels lost and lonely. He taps out the guitar's beat blasting in his headphones and tries not to think about landing.

 

***

 

When they're getting their bags in the terminal, Jon suddenly hugs Brendon tight and says, "You can come stay with us if you want."

Brendon's, "Okay," is muffled in Jon's sweatshirt. He quickly adds, "I'll be fine," though because Jon and Spencer haven't been living together long, and it'd be like disturbing honeymooners.

He wishes he didn't have to be polite.

 

***

 

Brendon's radio, television, and computer are on at all times now. It's just too quiet without someone else to talk to.

Before, even if he and Ryan weren't dating last time he was home, they were always around each other. They stayed at each other's houses and met at movies and just hung out. Sometimes they were with Spencer too and possibly Jon if he flew in for a visit, but more often than not they were alone.

Now, Brendon yells Jeopardy questions to Alex Trebek and tries to figure out who did it when Law and Order comes on just to fill the silence. It doesn't help much, but Brendon likes to pretend it does. He has to hide his sidekick from himself, just so he won't bug Jon and Spencer. Or call Ryan.

Occasionally, Jon calls him on the landline and asks if he wants to play guitar hero. Brendon leaps at the chance for human contact, but can't put himself in it all the way. Once, after Brendon's lost eleven games total, Jon throws up his hands. "What the hell, man? I mean, I know I kick your scrawny ass at this, but eleven times?"

Brendon jumps at him to tackle him to the floor in a wrestling fit. Jon does fall over, but instead of kicking Brendon's ass, he cushions him from hitting the floor. "Baby," Jon reminds him, pointing to his stomach.

Brendon looks down at the growing bump beneath his t-shirt. "Oh."

"Jon, what the hell are you doing to Brendon?"

Brendon squirms away from Jon and looks up sheepishly at Spencer. "I wanted to wrestle."

Spencer rolls his eyes and sips on the freshly made coffee in his hands. When Brendon makes eyes at it, he smirks over the rim of his mug. "Caffeine is bad for the baby."

Brendon frowns and, for a brief moment, he resents the baby for taking away everything. He took away Ryan, he took Jon rough-housing with him, and now he's taking begging for Spencer's coffee too. It's already made him sick and worn him out. Eventually he'll get huge. It sucks, okay. This whole thing sucks. He doesn't want to do this anymore. He wants to run around and play and cuddle. And-

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, _fuck_.

He scrambles up and almost tumbles over in the rush.

Alarmed, Spencer grabs for his arm to steady him, nearly spilling his coffee all down the front of his shirt. "What the hell? Are you okay?"

Brendon shakes Spencer off. His eyes are wide, showing too much white, and he's shaking his head. "Ryan was right. Fuckfuckfuck_fuckfuck_."

Jon gets off the floor and helps steady Brendon. "Hey, what? I mean, yeah, probably, but what?"

Brendon shakes his head and pulls away. "I have to go. Fuck, I have to talk to Ryan. I have to. Fuck, I have to go."

Jon reaches for Brendon again, but he darts away from Jon's grasp. "Sure. Are you okay to drive though? I could-"

Brendon shakes his head and waves his hand at them. "No, I. No. I'll be back. Uh, later. I have to go."

"Brendon-"

The door slams shut behind him.


	3. Rock-a-Bye Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. _Please_. [](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/profile)[**hopefulgenius**](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/) is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.

Brendon has no clue how he makes it to Ryan's condo alive. He remembers something like swerving to miss a semi and a lot of honking, but that's pretty much it.

He doesn't really care. He just pounds on the door as hard as he can. "Ryan! Ryan, answer the god damn door!"

He can hear Hobo barking her crazy little head off. Through the thick wood of the door, he can hear Ryan say, "Hobo, move, I can't get it if you're in the way. It's not like you're terrifying anyway."

Hobo whines, but apparently moves because Ryan swings the door open.

Brendon throws his arms around Ryan, his fingers twisting into the back of Ryan's t-shirt.

"Brendon? Are you okay?"

Brendon sniffles. "No."

Ryan's hand curls around Brendon's back and pulls him inside, shutting the door softly behind him. Hobo sniffs at Brendon's feet and yips her cheerful greeting. When Brendon doesn't respond by immediately picking her up and cuddling her, she scratches at his ankle and yowls.

Brendon smiles a little at her. "Hi, Hobo-girl."

Hobo whimpers and bites at his shoe in response.

"Hush, Hobo," Ryan says, but he doesn't mean it. He can never tell Hobo what to do; it just isn't in him. That, and Hobo's a pushy bitch when she wants her way. "Brendon'll play with you later, hush."

Brendon's breathing falters. "You were right."

Ryan's fingers trace softly beneath the hem of Brendon's shirt, gliding across the dip of Brendon's back. "Yeah."

Brendon nods against Ryan's shirt and sniffles again. "Mostly, anyway."

"Come on." Ryan guides him over to the couch, helping him sit down. He starts to move away and Brendon grabs his wrist. He doesn't want Ryan to leave him again, ever. Ryan places his hand over Brendon's and squeezes. "I'll be right back."

Brendon tentatively lets go and anxiously watches Ryan disappear into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a glass of water. "Here, drink."

Brendon obeys, taking the cup and sipping on it slowly. "Thanks."

Ryan settles on the couch next to him. "So, what happened?"

Brendon takes another sip and wedges himself underneath Ryan's arm, flush against his side. It's a bold move to make right after their fight, but Brendon needs to touch. He feels like his hands have forgotten what Ryan feels like beneath them and Brendon despises that. "I had a revelation."

"Revelation?" Ryan quirks an eyebrow.

"Yeah. I was with Jon and Spencer." He's not going to say _to get over you_ because that would be so pathetic right now and his rep is already going to take a serious blow if he ends up crying at some point. He's almost positive he will. "I was upset so Jon beat me bad at Guitar Hero and he said that I was a loser. It called for retaliation so I tackled him."

"Like that?" Ryan is staring at his belly and Brendon blushes. Come on, he's not that big yet. There's no way everyone can be so obsessed with the baby when he's only a little larger than before. He can still fit into his jeans, for heaven's sake.

"Yeah. Anyway, he wouldn't fight with me and Spencer came in with coffee. And I couldn't have coffee. And I was already upset because you were pissed, and everything was the baby's fault. And I." He stops, his words catching in his throat. Water gathers in the corners of his eyes and he scratches at them. "I _hated _our baby."

Ryan squeezes his arm reassuringly.

Brendon doesn't sob, but he wants to. "It was so stupid, Ryan. I hated our baby over a cup of coffee and a wrestling match that would have ended in me busting my head on the couch again. I hated him for making me have to hide from the press when I do anyway. I hated him for making me get fat. I hated him for all the morning sickness." He buries his head in Ryan's shoulder and purses his lips. "I'm such a shitty person."

Ryan half gathers Brendon up and Brendon half crawls on top of him. They adjust so that Brendon fits in Ryan's lap, knees bent at both sides of Ryan's waist. Ryan rubs his back again. "Not really. Having a baby has to be screwing your body's chemistry all to hell. You didn't mean it."

"But I did." Brendon lowers his head. "I should love him. More than anything. He's a person. He should feel loved and nurtured no matter what kind of weird my body is."

"Okay." Ryan's lips press against his temple. "And?"

Brendon closes his eyes tight and prepares to be dumped out on the floor. He's scared; he doesn't want to do this. But it has to be said, in fairness to all parties. "I'm keeping him."

"Why?"

"It's not enough, I know, but I love him. I want to buy his baby clothes and fix his scrapes and I don't want to deal with the unpleasantries that come with them, you're right." He keeps his eyes closed and the words tumble out one after another. "But I'm willing to go through all that to get to the good parts. I want to raise this baby. I want to be someone he can look up to, who he can cry to, who he'll scream at when he doesn't get his way. I know I need a lot of work, but I'm willing to do it."

He swallows hard and repeats, "So I'm really sorry, but I'm keeping the baby."

Not having an abortion has the potential to steamroll everything he's ever cared about. It might steal everything he's worked for. It might make Ryan hate him. But Brendon will not kill this baby.

His baby.

Their baby.

Ryan nods. "All right." Hobo jumps up between them into Brendon's lap and climbs over his tummy. Ryan hastily shoos her away. "Stop, Hobo, you'll hurt him."

Brendon's stomach flips and he can't believe what he thinks might be happening. A slow smile settles across his face. "So… you don't mind?"

Ryan busily pushes Hobo away when she continues her onslaught of hyper puppy attack-love. "No, why would I?"

Brendon lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and slumps forward, pressing against Ryan tiredly. "Because you're a douche, and I thought I was going to have to raise Baby by myself?"

Ryan snorts. "Yeah, because I'm the one who didn't answer my Sidekick when you called. I'm the one that didn't even try to make conversation after our fight. I'm definitely the one that blatantly ignored you when you were trying to make peace offerings out of cans of Pringles and pickles. Yeah, I'm the douche."

Brendon pulls back and adjusts on Ryan's lap so that they can face each other. "You called?"

"I haven't stopped since I got home, you asshole."

"Oh." Brendon blinks. "I hid my phone so I wouldn't call you. It's probably out of batteries by now, I guess. Why didn't you use my house phone?"

Ryan's lips twist into a smile. "You _have _a house phone?"

Brendon tosses his head back and laughs. Ryan shakes his head and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth.

 

***

 

August: Month Four

Things change quickly over the next couple of weeks. For one, Brendon doesn't go back to his house more than twice, and that was only to get jeans because his hips have never been able to fit into Ryan's pants. No, no, scratch that, he'd made one more trip the day after he'd made up with Ryan to make sure he hadn't left the stove on. So he's been to his condo all of three times since he left to play Guitar Hero with Jon and Spencer.

Another thing that changes is that he and Ryan are moving. Yeah, huge change. It totally catches Brendon off guard.

One morning, he wakes up and is surrounded by cream colored bedding, but no Ryan. He closes his eyes again and huffs, tossing his arm behind him to search. But Ryan isn't next to him.

Brendon quickly sits up. Hobo is in her proper place across Brendon's feet, keeping them warm, but Ryan really isn't there. Ryan never leaves the bed unless Brendon is awake too. Brendon likes to imagine that it's because Ryan likes watching him sleep as much as Brendon likes watching Ryan, but it's probably more like Ryan doesn't want to wake him up.

So, yeah, he's a little worried when Ryan isn't curled up next to him.

He yawns and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before climbing out of bed, wrapping the blankets over his head and shoulders. Hobo whines at him for being disturbed, but stretches and jumps down on the floor, looking up at him expectantly. Brendon smiles at her, leaning down to scratch behind her ear before getting up and opening the bedroom door to let her out. She trots out ahead of him and immediately into the kitchen, toward Ryan, Brendon assumes, so he follows her.

She's sitting at Ryan's heels, wagging her little beagle tail as she eats what has to be the remains of his breakfast. He's holding a highlighter in one hand and a spoon buried inside a jar of peanut butter in the other. This morning's paper is spread out in front of him and he only looks away from it for a second when he scratches Hobo.

Warmth spreads inside Brendon's chest.

Ryan's always made Brendon a little weird, a little softer around the edges, but lately he's just been a ball of mush every time he sees Ryan's face or hears his name. Brendon blames it on the hormones. "You're up early."

"Morning to you too. And, yeah, I wanted to get an early start," Ryan tells him, returning to his paper and highlighting a passage.

"Kay." Brendon grabs one of the table's chairs and drags it next to Ryan's. He plops down in it and nuzzles his face in Ryan's arm. He sticks his finger in Ryan's peanut butter jar and licks it clean. "What are you starting on?"

He looks at the newspaper articles. Everything highlighted says something like '2 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath, walk-in closet,' '3 bedroom, 2 bath, for sale by owner,' or 'lease-purchase, 2 bedroom, 1 extra room'.

Ryan highlights one that says '3 bedroom, huge living room, lease to own'. "House hunting."

Brendon stops with his finger half in his mouth. "What?"

"House hunting," Ryan repeats easily. "We need to get a new house before the baby comes."

Brendon pushes up off of Ryan's shoulder and stares at him. "But. I love your house. I don't want to move. I just got here." Well, not really. He's been there for a couple of weeks and he's stayed over for long periods of time before. It's just that now it's starting to feel like his house too and he doesn't want to give it up so soon.

Ryan looks back at him. "Brendon, this place isn't big enough for me, you, Hobo, and a baby who will eventually get bigger than a… lime?"

"Dr. Shelley says Baby is more like an avocado now," Brendon corrects him, gesturing with his hands the size difference between a little lime and a big avocado. Though he has a new obstetrician now and Dr. Shelley is in Chicago, he still talks to her every week. He likes her a lot and stubbornly refused to leave her out of the pregnancy despite the distance.

"Okay, whatever. Baby is going to get bigger than that." He softly pokes Brendon's stomach, pleasantly round and stretching his shirt after four months. "We need the room. Besides, this place isn't exactly baby-proof. We've got more points here than a porcupine."

Brendon has to admit that Ryan's right. From the kitchen table to the bookshelf in the living room to the ultra sharp edges of every corner that can be turned, Ryan's house is not baby-proof.

Brendon groans. He hated house shopping the first time around and he's going to despise it the second, he's sure. He can never find everything he wants in anything. It's not that he's particularly picky. On the contrary, he was actually okay with almost everything the realtor showed him. It's more that he doesn't really have a preference over where he lives as long as it has electricity and windows that can open for the sunshine.

The only reason he'd been able to decide on the house he currently owns is because Spencer threatened to strangle him if he didn't pick one that week ("For fuck's sake, Brendon, just shuffle the addresses, close your eyes, and draw one; it doesn't even matter this much!").

"We could always just put cotton over everything," Brendon suggests hopelessly, swirling his finger in the peanut butter jar.

Ryan ignores his idea, but rubs his knee. "Don't worry. We won't have Spencer breathing down our necks since we already are living somewhere. We can take our time. Is there absolutely anything you want the house to have?"

Brendon tries to think, he honestly does, but his brain just doesn't worry about breakfast bars and stairwell nooks often enough to care. Those things don't particularly matter to him. "Other than a place for us to sleep, a nursery, and, like, somewhere to put my piano? No, not really."

"Shit, forgot." Ryan scribbles 'piano' on the side of the newspaper. He hums and sucks the back of the highlighter into his mouth thoughtfully. "So at least three bedrooms, probably more like four because Spencer will bitch if we make him sleep on the couch whenever he and Jon stay over. Hobo needs a yard to play in." He replaces his highlighter with a red pen and crosses out several of the houses that don't fit the criteria.

"Maybe we should be careful about a lot of extra things?" Brendon suggests. "I don't want Baby to get hurt or bust his head or something." He shudders at the thought. He doesn't know what he'd do if Baby actually made it through all of this, through this weird pregnancy, through being a medical anomaly, through feeling unloved his first few months of existing (and Brendon knows that he knows; it's one of those things that he can just tell) only to die from hitting his delicate little head on the breakfast nook.

"Mm. Anything else?"

Brendon sighs. "You shouldn't have to give up your house, Ryan." Honestly, it's making him feel like a crappy person. He doesn't get angry at Baby for the changes anymore, but he blames himself a lot.

Of course, Ryan is completely chill and lets it go without a problem. "It's not that big a deal. I needed to redecorate anyway."

Brendon knows the last part is for his benefit. Ryan redecorated right before they left for the tour. But if Ryan can not care about this, then Brendon can too. "Got another highlighter?"

Ryan offers him a blue pen instead and Brendon circles everything he likes the sound of, meaning that he mostly circles everything Ryan has already highlighted. After his third choice, he looks up at Ryan and kisses him. He tastes like peanut butter and this morning's coffee (decaf, since Brendon would go crazy if there was caffeine in the house that he wasn't allowed to have). "I love you."

 

***

 

The first time Brendon feels the baby kick for real and not just in his head, he isn't even sure what it is. The best and only way he can think to describe it is that it felt like a popcorn kernel popping in his stomach.

He thinks it's weird but doesn't give it a second thought. Then it happens again, harder, like the baby is saying, "I'm right here, you idiot."

When he realizes what he's feeling, he runs to the bathroom and locks himself in. Everything seems so real so suddenly and it's utterly terrifying.  He calls Dr. Shelley, thankful that he has his Sidekick stuffed in his back pocket.  She laughs and assures him that everything's fine and that, yes, she's arranging everything so she can be at the hospital in Vegas when he goes into labor, "So stop having a heart attack, Brendon."

But he can't.  Even after Dr. Shelley's encouragement, when they hang up, he still thinks he's going to lose it.

Brendon looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror with a hand pressed firmly below his bellybutton, where he'd felt the movement and thinks, 'Oh, god, it's not just me anymore'.

Of course, Ryan starts to freak out when Brendon won't open the bathroom door after about ten minutes or so. He threatens and begs and bribes, but it isn't until he threatens to call Spencer that Brendon lets him in.

"What the hell, Brendon? What happened?"

"I felt him." Brendon shakes his head. "I felt him kick." Brendon is about to freak out, just completely unravel, and it won't be pretty when he does.

Ryan must sense the oncoming breakdown, because he wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. His free hand rests on Brendon's stomach.

Brendon curls into Ryan pathetically and whispers, "He's seriously there," into Ryan's neck, muffled and half-broken.

Beneath the alarm though, there's something else that Brendon hasn't particularly felt yet. There's this new awareness of the baby now, this brand new connection outside of a heartbeat and simple knowing.

After Ryan calms him down, the complete wonder of having someone inside him, just kind of chilling out until they're ready to make their debut appearance as the perfect little person, takes over every feeling of anxiety in Brendon, and.

Brendon never thought he could love somebody like he loves this baby.

 

***

 

Ryan's first time feeling the baby kick is a little funny. He's got his head in Brendon's lap, half-asleep from the pure laziness of not having to do shows or a million interviews for the past couple months.

Brendon has his fingers in Ryan's hair, humming a song that may or may not have been from The Little Mermaid as he watches a Planet's Ugliest Dog Competition on Animal Planet. He coos over several of them and laughs over more. Ryan just presses his cheek to Brendon's stomach and closes his eyes.

A soft pressure runs along the side of his face and he and Brendon both jump, resulting in Ryan being dumped on the floor.

Brendon laughs until he can't breathe.

Yeah, Ryan knows where this kid gets his sense of humor.

 

***

 

September: Month Five

Being pregnant in September, the hottest month of the entire fucking year in Vegas, completely sucks. Brendon is tired and he's burning up and his body generally aches a lot.

Being pregnant in September while house-hunting? Yeah, it sucks so much worse.

They call Pete for the realtor's number, confident that if anyone knows someone who can keep their mouth shut about a celebrity scandal involving both gay and babies, it will be Pete.

He, in fact, does.

"She's great, guys," he assures them. "You'll love her and she'll totally stay quiet about your fucking like bunnies."

"Not so much," Brendon says bitterly, his head on Ryan's shoulder to overhear the conversation.

Ryan gives him a what-can-you-do look. "Do you _want _the baby to be scarred before he's born?"

"S'what therapy is for. Duh," Brendon sniffs.

"Trouble in paradise?" Pete asks, laughing. Brendon wants to throttle him but knows Pete would kick his ass, sad as that is.

"No." Ryan rubs Brendon's arm. Brendon wishes he could resist touching Ryan long enough to push him away because, seriously, you can only jerk off so much when your boyfriend is in the same bed as you, god. "Realtor, Pete?

"Oh, yeah. Hold on."

She's everything Pete promises when they meet her. Nice, to the point, completely discrete and very competent.

But Brendon can't help but want to kill her after she starts sending choices and flyers of houses they aren't going to buy their way.

"Are you sure you don't just want to throw darts? We can just live wherever the darts hit or something," he whimpers pathetically, sifting through more flyers and newspaper clippings.

Ryan offers him some gummy bears, the ultimate peace offering in the World of Ryan Ross, and says, "No, Brendon."

 

***

 

They keep looking and so does the realtor, and Brendon is about a week from slitting his wrists when Spencer calls.

"Hey, Brendon," he greets. "Is Ryan around?"

"Spencer Smith, I am offended." Brendon grins into the phone. "Am I not good enough to talk to? Also, why did you call my phone if you wanted Ryan?"

In the background he can hear something clatter and Jon cussing loudly. Spencer laughs. "Jon, don't die. I don't want to write 'Death by Spaghetti Sauce' on your grave, seriously. What? No, I'm doing it now, hold on. Brendon?"

"Still here," Brendon chirps. He's in an okay mood at the moment. Ryan let him off the house-hunting hook today and woke him up with a blow job, so. Pretty cool day so far. "Did Jon die?"

"No. I think he's picking up chunks of tomato though. Anyway, I called your phone because Ryan's is always busy anymore. Plus, you both should hear this."

"Hold on." Brendon switches to speaker phone. "Ryan! Ryan Ross, your best friend is on my phone and he wants to talk to you," he calls through the house.

Ryan emerges from the kitchen with his Sidekick pressed to his ear. "What? Why'd he call you?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "I don't know. Maybe he's my friend too? Or maybe he couldn't make it through the endless stream of phone calls about all the houses and shit anymore?"

Ryan covers his unoccupied ear and says, "Yeah, I'll call you back later, probably after we have dinner." He hangs up and sighs. "What's up, Smith?"

Spencer snorts. "Still looking for that house, Ross?"

Brendon laughs. "Are you kidding? That's all he ever does anymore. I'm beginning to suspect he's having an affair with the realtor at this point."

"And run the risk of losing a brat like you?" He ruffles Brendon's hair a little. "Never."

"Ew, still here," Spencer says. "Anyway, just wanted to tell you guys that there's a house for sale down the street if you're interested. It's pretty big and it's even got a piano room, according to the sign they posted."

Brendon and Ryan look at each other, and Brendon's face breaks into a grin.

 

***

 

The house is perfect, absolutely, completely perfect. Not too big, not too small, a pretty backyard for Hobo, a bookcase built into the wall for Ryan, a room for Brendon's piano with a huge window facing the backyard.

And there's a room right across from the master bedroom.

When Brendon walks into it, he can see a crib in the corner, a toybox beneath the window lying unused because the toys are scattered across the floor. He sees an overly loved blanket with an equally loved bear beneath it. The sun streams through the window; he can hear little bursts of giggles and.

They sign the papers on the spot.

 

***

 

Ryan's Sidekick buzzes in his back pocket, and he hefts the box of silverware in his hands up on their new house's kitchen counter to answer the text.

He arches an eyebrow when Brendon's number shows up.  
_  
hi gues wut_

Brendon is supposed to be resting upstairs while Ryan, Jon, and Spencer unpack all of their crap (which is a lot of stuff when you put everything together), not messing around with his phone. "Brendon, you okay?" he calls up.

His phone vibrates again.  
_  
jus guess_

Ryan rolls his eyes and types.   
_  
i'm kind of busy. what?_

"Slacker," Jon mutters as he helps Spencer bring in a couch.

Spencer shoots a look right through his unworthy heart. "I swear to God I'll kill you myself if you're texting right now."

The phone buzzes like an alarm clock and Ryan shrugs helplessly. "It's Brendon."

And Brendon texts,_ GUESS_, to him.  
_  
idk, you better be sleep texting or something. spence is glaring at me._

Ryan slices his box open with a box cutter and starts putting away the stuff inside slowly to buy some time.  
_  
Sry ): ily (geuss!!1!)_

"Ryan," Spencer snaps as he lowers the couch down, his arms straining with the weight, "put the damn phone away."

"Seriously, man," Jon pants. "Isn't he just upstairs anyway?"

Ryan quickly types, _srsly, b, idk_. "Yeah, he won't quit though."

"Tell him I'll strangle him if he doesn't stop distracting you." Spencer rubs his sore arms. They've been moving stuff all morning, Ryan helping Brendon move small things while he and Jon move bigger ones. Like the love seat. And the television. And the table.

And the godforsaken couch.

Yeah, it's starting to make him pissy.

"I will, I will," Ryan barely puts up two glasses when the phone rings. Spencer throws up his hands and goes back to the moving van, Jon at his heels.__

im n OUR bed lookn out OUR wndw @ UOR yard @ hobo &lt;3

Ryan's face softens into a smile.  
_  
yeah?_

Ryan leans against the counter, hips cocked, the box of dishes and Spencer's pending rage long forgotten as he waits for Brendon's reply.  
_  
ya ily xoxoooo_  
_  
get some rest, b_, he types. As an afterthought, he adds, _ily too xo_, before pushing send.

 

***

 

October: Month Six

It's amazing, really, but after they move everything into the new house, from Ryan's notebooks to Brendon's collection of movie posters, they still need stuff to take up space.

They hire a designer to fix up most of the house, but Brendon won't let her touch their room or the baby's nursery. He thinks they should be more personal than a spiffed up living room or kitchen, so they have to do that by themselves.

Ryan points out that Brendon's stomach has grown even more and there's no way a simple hoodie will hide it. Brendon shrugs and drags out a hoodie that's so grossly oversized that it covers his hands and reaches his mid-thighs. It completely swallows Brendon whole and is a pretty good disguise.

Besides, how many people at Wal-Mart or Target or whatever are going to happen to be part of the paparazzi anyway?

They go shopping and while Ryan is deciding whether their room should be Tropical Breeze or Spearmint Stick ("They are the _same _color, Ryan. Just pick one." "…Are you _blind_?") Brendon goes off to explore. He browses through electronics for a while, admiring the gigantic flat screens and all the new music they've gotten in before he gets bored and walks around aimlessly.

He messes around with the Legos and stuffed animals in the toy section until Ryan finds him and says that it's past dinner time. Ryan is very particular about not missing meals, particularly about Brendon missing meals. Brendon isn't sure why. The baby is supposed to only be about a pound, and he's gained, like, twenty. He could live off the body fat for a year or something.

But Ryan is still very particular, and he ushers Brendon out of the store with a few strips of color that they're supposed to tape on the walls to see what they like and without actually buying anything.

Brendon sighs and allows himself to be led along until they walk outside and he spots the vending machines. He immediately detaches himself and bounces over to one with rings in it, yanking his wallet out of his back pocket and feeding it change. When he opens the plastic bubble that comes out, it's a red band with silver flecks down the middle. He puts it on and holds it up to the Las Vegas sunset's light.

Ryan makes an annoyed sound. "Come on, Brendon. I'm hungry."

Brendon waves at him. "Hang on. Just a second."

He feeds the machine more change and frowns when the next bubble produces a blue ring. And when the next is a yellow one. Then another blue. Then a red one with black flecks. Then a gold one with a fake emerald.

He finally runs out of change and, after patting his pockets down, he turns to Ryan with huge, hopeful eyes. "Do you have any change?"

Ryan's hands are on his hips. "No. Now come on."

Brendon huffs. "You didn't even look."

"Ugh." Ryan rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet out, dumping the change part into Brendon's hand. "Just hurry up."

Brendon nods and puts the coins in their slots. Another yellow one comes out before he finally opens a bubble with a red and silver one. He grins and grabs Ryan's hand, pushing the ring onto his finger before Ryan can really do anything about it.

His face absolutely glows when he says, "Now we match."

Ryan feels like something monumental has just happened but isn't totally sure of what it is, just that it's important and it's probably been coming for a long, long time. Brendon laces their fingers together and smiles and this feels so right and normal that he can't help but smile back.

 

***

They return to the store eventually to pick some more paint colors because Ryan apparently doesn't like any of them for more than a couple of days.

Brendon still can't bring himself to be interested in the difference between Tropical Breeze and Spearmint Stick so he sets off to explore again.

Brendon eventually lights upon the baby section and is immediately drawn in by a bib that says, "Who says I can't keep a beat?" with a set of pots and pans beneath the words. He snatches it despite the fact that they were going to go baby shopping after they'd gotten the room painted.

It is a musically oriented baby object. He can not be held accountable for his actions.

He's trying desperately not to grab a bunch of pacifiers with little animals on them when he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

It's got a silver front and little black musical notes are scattered across it and there's a picture of a teddy bear holding a guitar and Brendon needs that baby album like he needs to breathe.

 

***

 

_Dear Baby-Who-Has-Yet-To-Be-Named,_

Hey, Baby. I really hope you don't mind me calling you Baby for right now. Your dad and I haven't figured out what exactly we should call you. Also, we don't know if you're a little boy or a little girl (I didn't want to know; I love surprises) so we aren't even sure what gender of a name we should be looking for.

Yeah, I know this is your baby album I'm writing in and it should go unused until you're here, but I wanted to write you a letter before you come, which should only be in a couple of months. We're expecting you in January so you're going to be a New Year's baby! How awesome is that? I'm an April baby. Nothing special about that other than April Fool's Day and that's honestly not the nicest holiday ever. And then there's that April showers bring May flowers stuff, but seriously. I want no part in rain. Don't worry about your birthday being so close to Christmas. We promise to give you just as many presents as we would if you were born in August. None of that combined Christmas and birthday gift stuff.

I'm severely off topic now. But I still promise all of that!

I also promise that you'll always feel loved and like you belong no matter what. You've got a lot of people that want you already and you're not even here yet. There's Uncle Jon and Uncle Spencer and Pete (we haven't decided if you should call him uncle yet, he's a questionable influence) and Uncle Patrick and a lot more uncles that aren't really related to us but qualify anyway.

Dad and I love you too, Baby. I can't wait until you get here so I can kiss your little hands and feet and tickle you until you squeal. I want to teach you everything I can, most of which is going to be music because that's what I know best. If you don't like music, that's fine, but I have this feeling that you will. Dad's excited about teaching you too. He thinks I didn't see him looking at those little guitars the other day at the store, but I did. I think I'll go get one just so he doesn't have to admit to hoping that you'll love playing like he does.

We painted your room the other day and put all of your stuff in it. It's yellow and white and has these pretty gauzy curtains that let all this sunshine through your window. We bought your basinet and a crib for when you're a little bigger and we got a toybox that isn't exactly big enough for all the toys we got you. You've got a million teddy bears and interactive learning stuff and alphabet books and number books and all kinds of things that I doubt you'll look at more than a couple of times before we buy you more stuff.

You're going to be one spoiled kid, I already know that. I have no self-control whatsoever when it comes to you and buying you anything I think you might want or need ever in your entire life. It drives your dad crazy. Quietly crazy, but crazy is crazy no matter the volume.

I wish on every star I see anymore that I can somehow make you happy. I want to give you a perfect life and all the smiles and encouragement and hope and anything else that you'll need from me.

I love you so much, Baby. I wish you were here so I could whisper that to you and sing to you. I do already and even if all the books say that you can hear me, it's just not the same. I want to sing you lullabies and cradle you and kiss you until you fuss for me to leave you alone (and I know you will, your dad is too good at it for you not to).

I love you love you love you love you. And I always will. I want you to know that no matter what.

-Daddy

 

***

 

After his letter, Brendon fills out all the information the baby book asks. His due date (more like his due month, they never could figure out when exactly the baby was conceived; Ryan thinks it was that time against the amps, but Brendon is positive it was when they were on top of his piano), his and Ryan's parents' names, all of the uncles and aunts both legitimate and illegitimate, how far along he is as he begins the book, and so forth. He fills Ryan's name in next to the bold DAD heading and scratches out the MOM one, re-labeling it DADDY and putting his own name there.

When he gets to the part that says MY NAME IS he stops and bites his lip.

Baby needs a name.

 

***

 

"Ryan," Brendon whispers one night when, once again, his mind is moving too fast to let him sleep. "Ryan, are you awake?"

Ryan doesn't answer, his breath doesn't even falter, maintaining its warm, steady in and out puffing against the back of Brendon's neck. He's dead to the world, probably from having to do so much painting over the past two weeks. Because Brendon can't be around the supposedly toxic fumes according to Ryan (despite the fact that the paint was labeled non-toxic), Ryan has to paint both their room and the nursery alone.

Brendon almost feels bad for asking Ryan not to let the designer and painters do the two rooms, but thinks Ryan is being too silly over the deadly paint issue for much pity.

Their room is painted though, striped in broad lengths of White Linen and Mirage White which is actually a green, believe it or not. Brendon thought it would look like a circus tent or something when Ryan started, but of course, Ryan was always the more artistic of the two of them, and it's beautiful.

Brendon's hands glide over Ryan's arms, down to where they're splayed over Brendon's stomach, and he squeezes them gently. "Ryan."

Ryan's breath comes out a little harder, a half-sigh, and he mumbles, "Mn, yeah?"

Brendon wiggles a little until he's pressed tighter into Ryan, completely spooned by him. "I can't sleep."

There's a pause in which Brendon thinks that maybe Ryan fell asleep again, but Ryan eventually squeezes his hands. "Just close your eyes, Brendon."

"I already tried."

Ryan half-sighs again and presses down on Brendon's hip, turning him over so they can face each other. He rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times before saying, "Okay, what's wrong?"

Brendon can't press flush against Ryan anymore, not with the baby, but he certainly makes an effort. He manages to get their shoulders and most of their chests touching, and he shifts to tangle their legs together. "We need a name for Baby."

"At," Ryan lifts his head a little and reaches over Brendon to retrieve his Sidekick from the bedside table and look at the screen, "3:46 in the morning?"

Okay, maybe right now isn't the perfect time to bring up naming Baby. Still, if not now, when? "It's almost January and we haven't named him. He's not even here yet and I suck as a parent."

Yeah, pity party, everyone feel bad for Brendon being a shitty parent. He knows he's being a little dramatic, just a little, but he really does feel bad.

Ryan sounds like he's half-asleep again when he says. "Brendon, stop worrying so much. Some people don't even have names days after the baby is born."

Brendon nuzzles beneath Ryan's ear, a small attempt to keep him awake. "We should still think about it."

Ryan's fingers sweep over his back, making large, comforting circles. "Brendon, I'll buy you the entire baby-naming section of Barnes &amp; Noble tomorrow if you be quiet and go to sleep."

Brendon smiles and places a kiss over Ryan's pulse point. "Promise?"

Ryan nods, his hand slowing its movements as he drifts off. "Promise."

 

***

 

November: Month Seven

The hard part of baby naming, they discover, is not finding a good name. The hard part is picking just two, just a first name and a middle name.

They've made a list in Ryan's notebook, right under some lyric-poem thing about _cotton candy and lips to match / sticky, flitting fingers but / we were too young to understand what it all meant anyway_. So far it looks like a scribbled mess of stars and highlighter and crossing things out and writing them back in and fitting first names with middle ones and question marks and "look up meaning" written beside a good chunk of what might or might not be actual names.

So far, they like (in no particular order, not even by gender because they aren't sure of the intended gender for half of them) (also, this is only the names that they can still read, not everything they've thought of):

Connor, Jillian, Jaden, Kaden, Trevor, Jace, Caleb, Cisqua, Jackson, Landon, Aralyn, Alexa, Myles, Peyton, Isabella (or Izzy or Bella but not Belle, Brendon), Shilah, Piper, Savannah, Michael, Max, Collen, Michelle, Matthew, Blair, Regan, Samara, Chaise, Emily, Jacey, Christopher, Jordan, Tara, Madison, Kallen, Cameron, Emily, Preston

And there are so many variations of each of those names that Brendon's head is starting to spin, seriously. At one point, he tried to ask the baby his thoughts on the matter, requesting that he kick if he heard any name he liked in particular.

Baby stayed as silent as he possibly could the entire time Brendon and Ryan were reading out names, the little jerk.

This could be a problem.

 

***

 

What Brendon wants, what he honestly wants more than anything else in the entire world (other than Ryan and Baby and their band and stuff) is to name Baby George R. Ross IV if he happens to be a boy.

"No."

Brendon's not really surprised by the firm, nearly harsh rejection of the idea. He's never verbalized it, but Brendon's pretty sure that Ryan swore to himself forever ago that he would not give his son his name.

Still, he pouts. "But I love your name."

"No." Ryan looks up from his notebook, gnawing lightly at the end of his pen. A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. "We could name him after you, though. Start a whole line. Brendon Boyd Urie the Second."

Brendon shudders. "No. Besides, he's going to be a Ross, not a Urie."

Ryan's blinks. "Seriously?"

Brendon ducks his head and smiles. "Shut the fuck up; I'm a traditionalist. Plus, being last in line for everything in elementary school sucked like you wouldn't believe."

Ryan snorts a laugh.

 

***

 

December: Month Eight

Brendon's stomach has been hurting all morning. He didn't even think about it at first, some piece of his brain dismissing it to Baby settling oddly or indigestion or something. His back hurts too, which is weird but not unheard of. He's got twenty extra baby pounds, almost all of which is on his stomach. A back ache is totally not weird.

Besides, these days he's used to discomfort. He gets a little nauseated sometimes, his ankles hurt constantly, his head is trapped in a migraine most mornings.

So, yeah, he chalks it up to nothing. He sends Ryan to the store to get sandwiches for lunch and milk and eggs and whatever else they put on the list Ryan keeps on the fridge.

Ryan returns with a frillion bags and refuses to let Brendon even pick up the one with the loaves of bread in it. So Brendon stays inside and unloads everything while Ryan brings stuff in two at a time.

On December 2nd at 12:37 PM, Brendon is carrying a carton of eggs to the fridge when a sudden, crippling pain shoots down the middle of his body, and he collapses to his knees, dropping the eggs.

Ryan comes into the kitchen with his arms full of grocery bags to find Brendon dry-heaving against the open fridge door, jagged eggshells contrasted against their exposed yolks surrounding him. Hobo is next to Brendon, whining, worriedly licking his hand.

Ryan drops everything and falls to his knees next to Brendon, shells crunching beneath his weight and yolks smearing against his pants. "Bren, fuck. What. Are you-?"

"Ryan," Brendon gasps, his body shaking with effort. He painfully shifts, moving against Ryan. His face fades to ghostly white, his dark eyes huge against such a pale background. On a half-sob he manages, "Baby."

For a moment, Ryan can't think, can't even breathe. Not with Brendon looking like he might be dying in his arms, not when he looks so sick and terrified.

But having a panic attack right now will not help Brendon or their baby.

"Brendon," Ryan says, soft, soothing, "I know it hurts, but you have to listen to me. Try to breathe. You know, like your breathing exercises before shows."

Brendon makes a heartbreaking noise, but his breath puffs a vaguely familiar rhythm against Ryan's cheek.

"Good, Brendon." Ryan smoothes his hair back. "I'm going to go get the baby bag, okay? Then I'm going to call Dr. Shelley and we'll get to the hospital. Can you walk?"

"No," Brendon breathes, his body growing lax as the first shocks of pain subside.

Ryan mentally curses. "Okay. That's fine. Stay here, then." He helps Brendon learn against the refrigerator. "I'll be right back." He presses a kiss to Brendon's forehead. "Right back."

He half-runs to get the duffel bag he insisted on packing as soon as Brendon hit six months. Brendon had laughed and said he was paranoid. Ryan is beyond thankful for his paranoia now.

When he gets back to the kitchen, the bag slung over his shoulder, Brendon is trying to pull himself up with a chair, his socked feet slipping in egg. Ryan catches him before he falls. "Shit, Brendon. Do you think you can get to the car if I help?"

Brendon nods, breathless, "Yes, yeah," and leans gratefully against Ryan's shoulder.

"Come on, then." Ryan wraps his arm around Brendon's waist. "Or are you too pansy, Urie?"

Brendon's face is mostly contorted in pain, but there's a dark glare beneath that. "Fuck you, Ross. See if he gets your last name now."

Ryan doesn't laugh because he isn't sure if Brendon's kidding or not. Instead, he helps Brendon lie down in the back seat of the car.

 

***

 

Ryan calls Spencer after Dr. Shelley, then Pete as they pull into the front of the hospital and the doctors get Brendon out of the car.

"Seriously?" Pete asks. "I thought it was next month?"

"Yeah, well. You know Brendon." Ryan reshoulders the baby bag. "He always rushes everything."

"Okay. We're going to catch a plane. We're in LA so it'll only be a couple hours. I'll call everyone."

Ryan holds in a groan. A hospital room full of the FBR/DD team is totally inconspicuous. Totally. "Okay. See you then."

People help Brendon up on a stretcher and roll him away. Ryan moves to follow, but Dr. Shelley blocks his way. "Mr. Ross, I can't let you back with him right now."

Ryan purses his lips. "Is he having the baby?"

She nods. "More than likely. First children rarely come to term, but he's too early; two months is way too early."

Fear grips at Ryan's chest, but he swallows it down, bitter and harsh. "Now what?"

"I'm going to try and stop the contractions with medication. Brendon's body is not equipped to go into the actual birthing process and that's why he's in so much pain." Her explanation is calm, slow. Ryan doesn't trust it.

"If you can't stop it," Ryan's having to count his breaths, in, out, in, as he speaks, "what's going to happen?"

"The contractions will grow progressively worse. The baby could drown if this takes too long. Worst case scenario, an infection will set in, and Brendon will become septic."

He feels cold suddenly. Freezing. Ryan wraps his arms around himself. "And he could die."

Dr. Shelley sighs. "Mr. Ross, I don't know. I'm an ER surgeon by practice. I'm only here at Brendon's request. I can do a c-section for him. But this is way out of even an obstetrician's league."

Ryan knows, has known from day one.

His fingers card through his hair. "Don't let Brendon die."

Dr. Shelley nods, her lips set in a firm line. "I will do everything I can. If the medication doesn't have an effect within the next half hour, I'll immediately go into the surgery."

Ryan wishes he didn't feel so cold.

 

***

 

Spencer and Jon burst into the front lobby like fire's at their heels. Ryan is immediately engulfed in a hug and Spencer's voice hovers over his ear. "How's Brendon?"

Ryan doesn't answer, just clings to Spencer because he doesn't know what else to do without the familiarity of Brendon's hyperactive counterbalance.

Jon pats his shoulder. "What's happening?"

"Brendon," Ryan mumbled into Spencer's shirt. "they're going to try and stop it, but the medication might not work and then they're going to do the surgery."

Spencer moves away a little, grasping Ryan's shoulders. "Are they okay?"

Ryan doesn't know. Damn it, Ryan just doesn't know.

 

***

 

Thirty minutes comes and goes like nothing. A nurse comes out to inform them that Dr. Shelley has begun working on Brendon.

Spencer thanks her because Ryan is staring too hard at the dull pattern of the hospital wall to actually be seeing it.

 

***

 

Just like when the news about getting pregnant got out, calls and texts flood Ryan's phone. At first, Ryan didn't answer it, couldn't think of what to say. Eventually, though, the receptionists wouldn't stop glaring, so he starts picking up.

Pete and Patrick are on their way, and Patrick wants to know if Ryan needs anything. Pete says he's bringing Hemmy and, "fuck the hospital if they don't like it."

Gabe's crew is coming, and Gabe insists on babysitting ASAP. Vicky-T hits him for being insensitive to the whole situation. "His boyfriend is going under the knife, you ass. Could you think about something other than recruiting people for more than, like, ten minutes?"

The Cab are coming. "How could we not?" Marshall laughs. "You're like our founding fathers, dude. This is almost our kid sibling's birth."

The Hush Sound is touring, but Greta sends her love. "Seriously, Ryan, I need pictures as soon as you get them. Keep me updated."

William and The Academy are on the way as they speak. William calls dibs for godfather. "I know Gabe's going to try for it if he hasn't already, and you can't let him get his hands on the baby. Basement, Ryan. Basement."

Ryan laughs quietly. "I'll talk to Brendon when he gets out of surgery." If he gets out, he thinks suddenly and can barely manage a goodbye before he hangs up.

 

***

 

Two hours have come and gone. No one on the hospital staff has said a word about how Brendon is, despite Spencer asking every nurse in sight every ten to twenty minutes.

 

***

 

When Brendon was sick the first time, Ryan had been scared of losing someone he loved for being absent-minded enough to overlook a serious illness. He would have done anything to get Brendon better, paid any price as long as he got to see that smile again.

Now, he'd still do anything, and that's just it. He'd do anything, but there's nothing to do.

He draws his knees up to his chest and tilts his head back against the wall.

Nothing.


	4. Rock-a-Bye Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. Please. [](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/profile)[**hopefulgenius**](http://hopefulgenius.livejournal.com/) is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.

Three hours.

Everyone starts filtering into the front lobby all in one rush, like they were somehow all on the same plane or something.

Ryan can't force himself to uncurl from his chair, doesn't really have to drive to, and no one seems to mind. They quietly ask Spencer and Jon how Brendon is and hug everyone in the room, like a somber family reunion.

It's when Pete comes in, loud and complaining about having to leave Hemmy in a hotel room and suddenly becomes quiet when seeing everyone that Ryan realizes that this is like a funeral procession.

"Jon," he says, "it's like he already died."

Jon drapes an arm across his shoulders. "Nah. You know Brendon. Drama drama drama. He's going to milk this for all it's worth."

"Duh," Pete says firmly, his bright smile a sudden, blinding force.

The room nods its agreement.

"He is our favorite drama queen after all," William laughs. "Drama king? Queen?"

"Queen," Ryland grins. "Brendon Urie is a queen if there ever was one. I got him a tiara for his birthday once."

"That was you?" Spencer hisses. "He wouldn't take it off for weeks. You should have seen the fit he threw when we wouldn't let him wear it on stage. It would've done any terrible two-er proud."

The room laughs.

Ryan smiles. "That's Brendon."

"Tell me about it," Jon sighs, long-suffering. "Remember that one time..?"

 

***

 

By hour five, everyone has settled down into the waiting room. By six, the initial laughter of the stories is wearing off, along with the comfort they brought. Everyone settles into the anxiety of waiting.

They're trying to hide it from Ryan, but he's not blind and these people are more his family than anyone connected to him by blood. He sees Patrick stroking the back of Pete's whitened knuckles. He sees the Alexes not paying attention to the card game they're playing on the floor. He sees Jon and Spencer whispering, heads bent close.

 

***

 

At seven hours and forty eight minutes, a nurse comes out with dark red-brown-black splashed on her scrubs.

Cash throws up in a corner.

The nurse is talking to Ryan, but he can't hear her. He's too busy staring at the red-brown-black. She leaves suddenly, and Ryan looks around. No crying. Just careful, watching.

Spencer's arm circles his waist and he says, "They're doing everything they can."

Ryan wishes he'd eaten something so he could join Cash in the corner. Throwing up has to be better than feeling like your stomach is at your feet.

 

***

 

Ten hours comes and goes, the clock on the wall chiming happily as eleven o'clock hits. Jon is sleeping against Spencer's shoulder, barely upright in his chair. Spencer is softly stroking his hair, fingers sifting through it absently. Pete and Patrick are cuddled close (mostly Pete's doing) as Pete half-heartedly plays Speed with The Cab, Gabe, and Siska. Vicky-T is trading magazines with William.

Everyone is quiet, barely talking aside from Pete's occasional outburst when he loses. The stress of knowing too much and simultaneously knowing too little is taking its toll, and they're exhausted.

Ryan is frayed, too scared to be tired. His hair sticks up in random places, dark lines accent his eyes.

"Ryan," Spencer says, "Ryan, you should try to sleep."

Ryan rests his cheek against his drawn knees, watching the card game. "There are a lot of people here, Spencer."

Spencer presses his cheek to Jon's head. "Yeah. Brendon, he's always been a people person. Probably because he's so persistent."

Ryan hums agreement.

"He's going to be okay."

The clock chimes twelve.

 

***

 

"Mr. Ross."

Ryan's eyes flicker up at the familiar voice.

The blood smeared down Dr. Shelley's shirt makes his stomach lurch a little.

"Mr. Ross, they've been transferred to Intensive Care."

Ryan blinks widely, his head light.

Dr. Shelley smiles, the shadows of sleeplessness momentarily swallowed up in the brightness of it. "Congratulations."

Ryan uncurls his legs, and he suddenly feels like a teenager again, all long, gangly limbs, awkward like his body doesn't fit right. Even his voice is shaky. "Can I see them?"

She nods. "Of course." Then she seems to notice everyone in the room and apologetically adds, "Only you for now, though. They're both going to need rest. Follow me, Mr. Ross."

Ryan nods, suddenly breathless. "Okay."

 

***

 

Ryan hates seeing Brendon lying on the hospital bed, even though he knew that of course he would be. Dr. Shelley pats his elbow and smiles again before leaving him alone.

The heart monitor attached to Brendon's finger, it's much too loud and rings in Ryan's ears as he steps forward. With each inch of progression, Ryan's nerves get a little more on edge. He can see Brendon's face more clearly now. It's smoothed over with drugs, sickly and a little yellowed, he thinks. His hair is plastered to his forehead, stuck to his skin with dried on sweat. His mouth is chapped, badly, and his cheeks seem a bit hollowed.

"Ryan."

Ryan jumps a little, then breathes a sigh. "Brendon. Holy shit." He takes his hand carefully, like Brendon might break. "Holy shit, you scared me."

Brendon's eyes are barely open, gazing up at Ryan dazedly. He swallows hard, his throat burning around his words. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay." He squeezes his hand. "How do you feel?"

Brendon's eyes close again, and he winces on too large a breath. "Shitty. But I've been shittier, I think." He opens his eyes thoughtfully. "Hm, no, never mind. This is pretty shitty."

Ryan laughs, quiet and unstable. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Brendon shifts a little, face scrunching in pain. Ryan moves to help him, but Brendon waves him off. "No, no. I'm fine. Just." His eyes meet Ryan's, dark and piercing. "How's Baby?"

Ryan bites his lip. "I haven't seen the baby yet. Dr. Shelley said that she needed to do a quick check for vitals and stuff but then she'd come if everything was okay."

Brendon nods slightly. "Okay."

Ryan smoothes a hand over Brendon's hair. "Everyone's here."

"Hm?" Brendon's eyes blink slowly, heavily. "Everyone?"

"The bands," Ryan explains. "You've got the entire label out there in the waiting room. I've been watching The Cab play every card game under the sun for twelve hours."

"Twelve hours?"

Ryan nods. "Yeah. You were out for a long time." He tries not to remember it, not to remember the fear or the blood that amplified it. He shudders a little and disguises it as a roll of his shoulders.

Brendon isn't fooled. His fingers slowly reach up and slide against Ryan's cheek, scratching against the faint stubble there. "That long, huh?"

Ryan catches his hand, his thumb delicately tracing over Brendon's palm. "Yeah."

"Excuse me?" They both look up, and Ryan's heart skips a bit. The nurse from before, the one that told him that Brendon might bleed to death, is standing in the doorway with a clean pair of scrubs on and a bundle of blankets in her arms. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Brendon says quickly, squirming to sit up. He makes a pained face at the jerky movement but keeps saying, "Yes, yes, _yes_."

Ryan helps him, pressing a hand to his back and shifting him up without touching his bandaged stomach. "Brendon, stop it, you're going to hurt yourself."

Brendon grins and holds out his arms toward the nurse. "Please, can I?"

She laughs softly and hands the bundle off to him, pushing the top fold back a little.

The first thing Ryan sees are Brendon's wide, brownie-colored eyes set in a tiny, perfect face, and his heart _aches_.

"Mr. Ross, Mr. Urie," the nurse says, almost a whisper, "meet your five pound two ounce, perfectly healthy little boy."

Brendon absolutely glows.

Ryan is _not _about to cry.

 

***

 

Ryan is up on the hospital bed, Brendon curled into his side. The only difference from their first trip to the hospital is that their baby is cradled protectively against his chest. Ryan's fingers carefully trace over chubby cheeks; a tiny, perfect mouth; small, grabby hands; all ten delicate little toes.

He can't help but feel like things have somehow come full circle.

The nurse had given them a bottle with formula and shown them how to hold the baby before leaving, explaining that he would be starving after such a hard journey. He'd greedily drunken about half of it before falling asleep in Ryan's arms, Brendon swiping off what little milk he'd accidentally let escape onto his chin.

"He's perfect," Brendon whispers. "He looks just like you, Ryan."

Ryan's fingertips graze against the baby's downy soft, hazelnut hair. "I was blond when I was born, Brendon."

Brendon sniffs. "So? He still looks like you."

"He has your eyes. And your mouth."

"But your fingers." Brendon's index finger follows the gentle lines of the baby's arm, over his hand, and down to his fingernails. "He's perfect."

Ryan smiles and kisses Brendon lightly. "You're right."

"I picked a name that I like."

Ryan looks at him. "What?"

"A name." Brendon smiles. "I picked one."

At this point, Ryan is willing to let the baby be named anything, from Aladdin to George R. Ross IV. What matters is that Brendon is okay, their son is okay, and that, holy shit, Ryan's a father.

But for appearance's sake, Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

"One part is for me because I still love your name so much, and it's really close. The other one is kind of a tribute to the bands because… well, you'll get it when you hear it. And then, of course, he has your last name."

"Are you going to tell me his name or are we just going to call him 'hey you' forever?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Pushy, pushy. Okay, fine." He pauses for effect. "How about Riley Alexander?"

"Riley Alexander?" Ryan tries it on his tongue, forming the words carefully, piece by piece. It's the writer in him that does it, that matches the flow and syllables and appreciates the fluidity of it. He leans down, hovering over the baby's face, and presses his lips to his forehead. "Riley Alexander Ross."

 

***

 

The first time everyone else sees Riley is in front of a big window that separates them from the babies inside. They crowd outside of it as a nurse enters and picks him up, lifting him to face the glass. His eyes are barely half open, and he swats at the dark blur of people in front of him.

Spencer finds it hard to swallow suddenly as his hand grazes over the glass, right above where Riley's tiny feet are kicking. "He looks just like Ryan used to."

Jon laughs. "Like Ryan still does, you mean. I've seen the pictures. I know."

"Holy fuck, we have our first band baby," Pete grins and pokes at the glass too. "This is history in the making, right here. I'm signing him as soon as he can fucking talk. Maybe before that."

Patrick snorts. "You'd sell a CD of baby sounds?"

"Yes," Pete says indignantly. "Because this kid is a Ross-Urie collaboration and people would buy it like crazy, you know they would. Plus, they'll probably have him playing Bach by three years old. Gotta catch them early."

Gabe watches intently as Riley's face scrunches in Pete's direction. "He's going to be the best little cobra ever."

Vicky-T can't stop cooing even if she knows that she'll feel like an idiot later.

All of the Alexes are ecstatic about sharing their name with a fifth person, even if it's only a middle name. Five is totally an awesome number.

They crowd the tiny hospital's hallway as they stare at the newest edition to their ever-growing family.

Spencer smiles. "Riley is never going to know what the word 'peace' means."

"But he'll be the most loved baby that ever graced the earth," Jon replies, an arm moving around Spencer's waist. "Ever."

Spencer watches Riley squirm a little, making more faces in Pete's general direction and knows that nothing could be truer.

 

***

 

Ryan is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In no country should it even be legal to drive a baby home by yourself. There should be like. Trained baby drivers or something.

He's going about twenty miles an hour on the highway, not caring at all about the million and a half pissed off drivers that flash him the bird. Fuck them, they have a baby and everyone else needs to slow the hell down.

Brendon is in the backseat watching Riley sleep in his car seat. He looks like he's at the end of his rope too, checking to make sure the straps on the seat are tight enough but not too tight every few minutes.

If this amount of stress doesn't let up soon, Ryan's fairly sure everyone in the car is going to be dead within the week.

 

***

 

The stress doesn't let up, but they survive the first week. And the next. And the next. It doesn't even make sense that they're so stressed out. Riley hardly ever cries unless he needs something or isn't being paid any attention (Ryan blames Brendon's influence for that one). He's mostly calm and quiet, observant even if all the books say that he can't see that well yet.

He already knows both of their personalities by heart, Brendon can tell. He knows that Brendon will coddle and coo over him whenever he makes a face, and he knows that Ryan can't stop himself when he whimpers.

Riley, Brendon has concluded, is a genius. Maybe even an evil genius. It's kind of awesome.

After a couple of days at the hospital, everyone had gone back to their respective parts of the country, but they still keep calling, demanding more and more pictures of Riley and what he's doing now.

Jon is happy to oblige them on the picture-taking front. He's a little disheartened by the fact that Riley refuses to work with a flash camera, but makes it through okay. He gets out his digital camera instead and takes pictures of everything that goes on in their lives, from Riley refusing to eat peach baby food ("But, Riley, it's good for you!" Click. "For me?" Click. "It's good! Here, I'll show you." Click. "What the hell, that is not peach." Click.) to Riley playing in the sink when they give him a bath ("Aw, you have a rubber ducky?" Click. "Whoa, hey, careful with the splashing. My camera." Click. Splash. "_Crap, my camera_.")

Brendon's absolute favorite picture is the one of Riley sleeping in the crook of Ryan's arm, his cheek pressed to Ryan's chest, his dark eyelashes fanned out against his pale skin.

He knows that every parent thinks their child is better than everyone else's, but Riley Alexander Ross really is perfect in every conceivable way.

 

***

 

Brendon keeps up with Riley's baby book religiously, penciling in every first Riley has. First hair cut. First time grabbing for something. First distinguishable sound that wasn't crying. First time he slept for more than two hours at a time.

It's when Riley quirks a smile the first time, lopsided in a way that could only have come from one person that Ryan starts making his own entries, his careful loops contrasting yet somehow fitting right alongside Brendon's excited scrawl.

 

***

 

They'd decided months ago, with Jon and Spencer's input, that they wouldn't 'come out' per se. There would be no long, glorious speeches about gay rights or about their struggle to find their place in a predominantly heterosexual world. In fact, they refused to label themselves 'gay'. Ryan and Brendon were just that. RyanandBrendon. There was no title for that, and they didn't want there to be.

The final verdict was that they would just act like a normal couple (after the baby was born, just to keep attention off of them for a while). They would hold hands if Ryan let Brendon get away with it, and they'd kiss if they felt like it. It wasn't a hard choice.

What was a hard choice was figuring out how to explain Riley to the public. At first Brendon had been strictly opposed to the idea of lying to everyone and saying Riley was adopted. He didn't want Riley to have to grow up thinking that _anyone _had ever not wanted him. He didn't want to lie from the very beginning to their child.

Eventually, though, he realizes that they don't have much of a choice. They'll tell the public, when they're asked and not before, that Riley was anonymously adopted, and they'll tell Riley that it's just a trick they're playing until he's old enough to understand why they can't tell anyone the truth.

Despite the planning, though, they are absolutely not expecting it when a picture of them walking through a park holding hands with Riley in his stroller is splashed across the cover of "Star". Brendon personally thinks it's the 'GAY?' typed in big red letters over the front that makes it so shocking.

He clips the article out and puts it in a shoebox with the first Disney video he ever watched, the first song he ever wrote himself, and a copy of the record deal they'd signed as teenagers. It's the first time they're acknowledged as real life RyanandBrendon and he wants to remember it when he can't even remember his own name.

 

***

 

Mail comes flooding in, both from fans and from every reporter in the world. Brendon decides that he's going to write the fans a 'thank you for your support' letter no matter what they actually said and a polite letter declining all the interviews.

He writes out maybe five before he says, "Fuck it," and cuddles with Ryan on the couch, Riley gurgling happily between them.

 

***

 

It's four months after coming home from the hospital and Dr. Shelley calls them herself to give them the news. According to all the doctors that have been checking on Brendon every week, he's basically all healed up, there are no signs of infection, and they are now good to go in the sex department.

As soon as they put Riley in his crib for the night, softly closing the door behind them, Brendon shoves Ryan into their room and attacks his mouth, his hands flying up Ryan's shirt.

Ryan doesn't even laugh, just yanks Brendon's shirt and hoodie over his head in one jerky movement. He pushes Brendon back until the back of Brendon's knees hit the bed and he falls onto the mattress, his stutter of surprise swallowed by Ryan's kisses.

There's a hectic grabbing at pants and underwear, belts being yanked out of their loops and clothes being ripped off with a flourish, then it's just skin on skin, just Ryan and Brendon, RyanandBrendon.

Brendon's whole body aches and burns and just wants, hums with the familiar trill of ohgodplease that he's missed for so long. Ryan's hands (god, his hands) slide down the lines of his body, guitar-calloused fingertips tracing out the planes of it like he's trying to read Braille at hyper-speed. They leave hot trails in their wake, and Brendon arches up into them, whining softly (he'd probably be moaning like an eight dollar whore if they didn't have to worry about the baby waking up).

The fingers curl around Brendon's cock, _and _Brendon is going to come right now if Ryan doesn't stop that.

"Ryan," he gasps into his mouth, "Ryan, don't."

Ryan breaks the kiss, but just barely, his breath puffing harsh against Brendon's lips. "S'okay. Won't be the only time tonight anyway."

Then Ryan's kissing him again, his hand is jerking up, squeezing so tight it almost hurts. Brendon grabs desperately at Ryan's shoulders, toes curling at the brilliant waves of white hot that flood over him. Ryan's name tumbles from him as he comes, Ryan pulling him all the way through it.

In the morning when Brendon gets up to the soft sounds of Riley waking over the monitor, Brendon's got no clue how many times they each came before finally passing out in a sticky, sweaty mess of tangled limbs.

He's ninety-nine percent sure that they set a new world record or something, though.

 

***

 

Finally the day arrives when Spencer calls them and says, "I think you guys have to do an interview with someone somewhere."

Ryan smiles at Riley as he curls his hand around Ryan's ring finger. Riley looks up at him and giggles triumphantly. "Why? What's up?"

"Jon and I have been doing a couple just to get people to stop talking about you guys and leave you alone, but." Spencer sighs. "I don't think anyone's going to quit until they hear what happened straight from the source."

Ryan turns to Brendon. "Spence says we need to do an interview."

Brendon is sitting at his piano bench, watching Ryan and Riley play on the floor as he keys the possible beat to a song that's been creating itself in his head. "We should tell them that we fell in love, got married in Spain, had crazy hot sex and got pregnant or something."

Ryan snorts. "Or something."

"Look, it's not like I want to spoil your happy little lifestyle or anything," Spencer explains, and Ryan can just see him raking his hands through his hair, probably tired and more than a little frustrated. "It'd just be easier if you guys said it. No one believes me and Jon."

"Tell him we'll set up something on the site." Brendon's eyes light up. "Hey, we could totally do a video log thing. It'd be awesome."

Ryan rolls his eyes.

 

***

 

How Brendon convinced Ryan to set up a video camera in their living room and actually go through with the video log ideas, Ryan will never know.

Well, no, not really, but Ryan fails to see how one blowjob clouded his sense _this much_.

He and Brendon are sitting at their table with Riley playing in Brendon's lap. The camera is facing them, dark and tall and so much more menacing than any piece of technology has any right to be.

Brendon kisses the top of Riley's head and says, "Hey, pretty boy. This is your big debut. Don't be nervous; you're absolutely perfect the way you are."

Riley seems blissfully unaware of Brendon, humming at his building blocks.

"Can you turn it on, Ryan?" Brendon asks, his mouth still pressed to Riley's head. "I think he's ready."

Ryan takes Brendon's hand beneath the table and squeezes reassuringly before leaning over and pressing the button. The little light on the camera flashes green; his anxiety rears up a little before he remembers that the camera is attached to the computer, and this is airing live.

He smiles. "Hi, everyone. Uh, I guess you know who we are if you're watching this, but. I'm Ryan Ross."

"And I'm Brendon Urie," Brendon lifts his mouth from Riley's head to smile widely. "We're from Panic at the Disco, and this is our son, Riley. Riley, can you say hi?"

Riley looks up at the camera and smiles in that flirtatious way that gets every girl they see on the streets cooing.

Brendon and Ryan look at each other and smile. For one of the first times since he heard the word 'pregnant,' Ryan's nerves are fine.


End file.
